=TJ 


The'" Changing  Order 

By  OSCAR  LOVELC  TRIGGS,  f'h.  D. 


: 


INTERNAPONJVL  LIBRARY 

Of 

SOCIAL  SCIENCE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Istate   of  Thomas    J, 


The  Changing  Order 

A  Study  of  Democracy 


BY 

• 

Oscar  Lovell  Triggs,  Ph.  D. 


And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfills  Himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one   good   custom   should   corrupt  the  world." 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  KERR  &  COMPANY 
1908 


Copyright,    1905 

by 
OSCAB  LOVEIX  TRIGGS. 


3539 


TO  MY  ACCOMPLICE. 


474194 


NOTE. 

Several  of  the  papers  of  this  volume  have  appeared 
in  the  Forum,  Sewanee  Review,  Poet-Lore,  Unity, 
Open  Court,  Independent,  Chautauquan,  and  Crafts- 
man; and  to  the  editors  of  these  magazines  I  am  in- 
debted for  permission  to  reprint  in  the  present  form. 

O.  L.  T. 

Chicago,  July,  1905. 


THE  WORD  DEMOCRACY. 

Underneath  all  now  comes  this  Word,  turning  the  edge  of  the 
other  words  where  they  meet  it. 

Politics,  art,  science,  commerce,  religion,  customs  and  methods 
of  daily  life,  the  very  outer  shows  and  semblances  of  or- 
dinary objects — 

Their  meanings  must  all  now  be  absorbed  and  recast  in  this 
word,  or  else  fall  off  like  dry  husks  before  its  disclosure — 

Art  can  now  no  longer  be  separated  from  life; 

The  old  canons  fail ;  her  tutelage  completed  she  becomes  equivalent 
to  Nature,  and  hangs  her  curtains  continuous  with  the 
clouds  and  waterfalls — 

The  form  of  man  emerges  in  all  objects,  baffling  the  old  classi- 
fications and  definitions — 

The  old  ties  giving  way  beneath  the  strain,  and  the  great  pent 
heart  heaving  as  though  it  would  break — 

At  the  sound  of  the  new  word  spoken — 

At  the  sound  of  the  word  Democracy. 

EDWABD  CABPENTEB  in  "Towards  Democracy." 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 


£>!  Introduction         .........       0 

Democratic  Art 15 

The  Esoteric  Tendency  in  Literature:    Browning     .          .          .52 
Subjective  Landscape  Art:    George  Inness         ...          78 

^  The  Critical  Attitude 87 

O  An  Instance  of  Conversion:    Tolstoi 112 

O  A  Type  of  Transition:    William  Morris         .          .         .          .120 

The  Philosophy  of  Play 151 

Democratic  Education  .          .  .         .          .          .   169 

"  Where  Is  the  Poet  ?" 181 

Q  The  New  Doctrine  of  Labor 195 

0  The  Sociological  Viewpoint  in  Art 199 

Q  The  Philosophy  of  .the  Betterment  Movement  .         .          .          .215 

Q  Industrial  Feudalism  —  and  After 223 

O  The  Workshop  and  School 233 

O  A  School  of  Industrial  Art 249 

The  Philosophic  and  Religious  Ground :    Walt  Whitman  .          .  262 
The  Outlook  to  the  East 279 


INTRODUCTION. 

I  am  to  make  constant  use  of  the  word  democracy 
in  the  following  studies  yet  I  am  unable  to  give  it  precise 
definition.  I  understand,  however,  that  the  term  is  indica- 
tive of  a  new  order  of  ideas.  Broadly  speaking  it  repre- 
sents an  attitude  of  mind  that  is  opposed  to  the  monarchic 
and  aristocratic.  As  yet  the  foundations  of  the  social 
order  are  largely  aristocratic.  The  new  ideas  are  ob- 
scured and  their  effects  destroyed  by  the  stream  of  tra- 
ditionary tendency.  My  purpose,  then,  is  to  separate  the 
new  order  from  the  old,  to  gather  materials  for  a  defini- 
tion from  the  more  subtle  fields  of  distinction,  leaving 
the  final  formulation  to  those  who  shall  live  within  the 
new  world.  I  have  in  view  certain  phenomena  that  seem 
to  me  to  be  the  effects  of  the  new  spirit  of  life  which  we 
call  democracy.  Democracy  signifies  the  uprise  of  the 
people,  the  "masses,"  their  complete  utterance  and  exer- 
cise in  politics,  art,  education,  religion,  and  all  other 
forms  of  human  activity.  Probably  the  first  result  of 
the  denial  of  the  feudal  relation  was  felt  in  the  sphere 
of  government.  The  American  Revolutionists  discarded 
at  the  first  political  inequality  which  was  exemplified  in 
arbitrary  taxation,  though  they  continued  to  maintain 
nearly  every  other  feudal  condition.  Washington  might 
well  have  been  proclaimed  King  at  the  time  of  his  election 
to  the  presidency  and  in  the  states  of  the  South  a  genuine 
aristocracy  was  upheld  until  the  civil  war.  The  principle 


10  INTRODUCTION 

of  popular  control  was,  however,  acknowledged  and  in 
Lincoln,  the  peasant  president,  the  man  of  common  fibre, 
unlettered  in  the  European  sense  of  culture,  yet  the  ac- 
credited prophet  of  the  new  social  order,  truly  called  by 
Lowell  "the  First  American,"  the  advent  of  the  people 
was  fully  justified.  But  to  describe  democratic  polity  in 
the  sphere  of  government  is  no  part  of  my  motive.  I  have 
in  mind  the  more  subtle  effects  of  democracy,  its  radiation 
in  art,  industry,  education,  and  religion.  Now  one  of  the 
new  ideas  is  the  doctrine  of  labor  as  distinguished  from 
the  aristocratic  doctrine  of  leisure.  "Blessed  is  he  who 
has  found  his  work"  spoke  out  Carlyle.  But  what  is  the 
nature  of  that  work  from  which  the  ancient  curse  has 
been  removed — work  which  is  a  tangible  blessing  in 
itself,  a  pleasure  even  as  sleep  and  food?  In  truth  a  new 
industrialism  is  forming.  Moreover  a  new  sense  of  life 
itself  is  shaping  among  those  whose  perceptions  are  not 
obscured  by  power  and  luxury  and  a  Maeterlinck  is  born 
to  become  the  prophet  of  the  humble.  "There  are  about 
us,"  says  Maeterlinck,  in  one  of  his  recent  essays,  "thous- 
ands of  poor  creatures  who  have  nothing  of  beauty  in  their 
lives;  they  come  and  go  in  obscurity,  and  we  believe  all 
is  dead  within  them ;  and  no  one  pays  any  heed.  And  then 
one  day  a  simple  word,  an  unexpected  silence,  a  little 
tear  that  springs  from  the  source  of  beauty  itself,  tells 
us  they  have  found  the  means  of  raising  aloft,  in  the 
shadow  of  their  soul,  an  ideal  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful  things  their  ears  have 
ever  heard  or  their  eyes  ever  seen.  O,  noble  and  pallid 
ideals  of  silence  and  shadow!  It  is  you,  above  all,  who 
soar  direct  to  God!"  Where  this  thing  is  true,  where 
the  speech  inclines  to  silence,  where  life  is  esoteric,  of 


INTRODUCTION  11 

what  avail  is  the  old  ideal  of  external  authority?  A 
marked  transformation  is  taking  place  likewise  in  the  field 
of  art,  both  in  respect  of  theory  and  of  subject  matter.  Tol- 
stoi would  define  art  in  terms  of  experience  and  William 
Morris  in  terms  of  pleasurable  activity.  "One  day," 
Morris  said,  "we  shall  win  back  art  to  our  daily  labor: 
win  back  art,  that  is  to  say,  the  pleasure  of  life,  to  the 
people."  And  that  was  a  profound  saying  of  his  when 
denied  the  laureateship  at  Tennyson's  death:  "If  I  can't 
be  the  laureate  of  writing  men,  I'll  be  the  laureate  of 
sweating  men."  So  the  people  are  finding  inclusion  in 
the  books.  One  recalls  now  with  a  new  sense  of  their 
significance  the  innovations  begun  by  Euripides  in  the 
direction  of  the  realistic  drama,  the  new  spirit  of  Chaucer 
who  gave  the  miller  and  plowman  a  place  among  his 
pilgrims,  the  greatheartedness  of  Burns  who  sang  the 
glories  of  the  home  and  field,  the  wide  sympathies  of 
Wordsworth  who  depicted  with  all  sincerity  the  dignity 
of  the  commonplace.  For  these  are  among  the  historic 
tokens  of  democracy.  Changes,  springing  from  the 
same  impulses  are  taking  place  in  education.  Nearly  every 
school  building  is  the  arena  today  of  a  conflict  between 
the  old  and  the  new.  Every  teacher  and  pupil  feels,  in 
some  degree,  the  turmoil  of  transition.  The  ideal  of  a 
special  culture  is  yielding.  The  scholar,  once  revered  as 
holding  the  keys  of  that  knowledge  which  was  power,  is 
losing  place  and  function — receding  into  the  past  like  the 
vanishing  forms  of  nobles  and  priests.  But  life  is  becom- 
ing itself  educative.  Schools  are  being  established  with 
methods  based  on  the  principle  of  self-government.  And 
for  the  discipline  of  the  intellect  there  is  being  substituted 
the  culture  of  personality.  So  into  all  realms  of  thought 


12  INTRODUCTION 

the  spirit  of  democracy  is  penetrating.  Religion  is  per- 
haps the  last  to  suffer  change.  For  long  ages  the  Chris- 
tian world  has  been  taught  to  observe  the  judgments  that 
arise  within  the  "Kingdom  of  God" — how  God  is  a  king, 
who  has  established  a  kingdom,  who  compels  service  upon 
subjects  whose  duty  is  to  obey.  But  these  conceptions, 
king,  kingdom,  subject,  duty,  obedience,  find  little  re- 
sponse among  men  who  as  to  all  other  affairs  are  living 
in  federation  and  under  republican  forms.  And  at  length 
prophets  are  arising  upon  whose  lips  the  word  king  is 
never  heard,  and  in  whose  minds  the  conception  of  king- 
ship is  never  formed — prophets,  that  is,  of  cosmic  democ- 
racy. The  doctrine  of  immortality  was  once  aristocratic ; 
it  is  now  inclusive  and  democratic.  These,  then,  are  the 
type  of  phenomena  that  I  have  in  mind  to  describe.  It 
should  be  understood  that  from  the  very  nature  of  the 
subject  the  discussion  can  not  always  be  elaborated  but 
must  be  conducted  largely  by  the  method  of  suggestion. 

II. 

Nothing  betrays  the  force  of  tradition  more  than  the 
persistency  with  which  democracy  in  America  has  been 
construed  in  terms  of  a  system  of  politics.  Our  fore- 
fathers were  political  revolutionists,  and  when  the  prin- 
ciples of  free  government  were  formulated  and  political 
equality  was  secured  for  all,  it  was  supposed  that  the 
citizens  of  the  new  republic  were  safe  in  their  pursuit 
of  happiness.  The  social  ground  work  which  the  Colon- 
ists actually  laid  was  industrial  democracy,  which  requires 
for  its  well  being  not  a  government  of  laws,  but  a  co- 
partnership of  men.  Notwithstanding  this  condition, 


INTRODUCTION  13 

our  national  difficulties  have  been  adjusted  by  political 
instruments,  and  the  deposit  of  a  ballot  and  the  enact- 
ment of  a  law  have  been  regarded  as  the  chief  duty  of 
man.  What  these  instruments  really  recorded  were  in- 
dustrial changes.  The  American  Revolution  was  funda- 
mentally a  war  undertaken  for  the  independency  of  labor. 
The  Civil  War  was  the  occasion  of  a  conflict  between  two 
opposing  ideals  of  life — that  attendant  upon  labor  and 
leisure.  The  principles  of  representative  government 
in  the  one  case,  and  of  state  and  national  sovereignty 
in  the  other,  were  secondary  matters.  Our  fathers  gained 
certain  industrial  rights  by  the  one  struggle  and  their 
sons  abolished  one  form  of  industrial  slavery  by  the 
other.  The  result  of  confusing  the  issues  so  completely 
has  been  to  place  excellent  sets  of  laws  upon  the  statute 
books,  but  to  leave  the  community  in  unregulated  tur- 
moil. Our  actual  democracy  is  crude  in  the  extreme; 
the  first  lines  of  relationship  proper  for  an  industrial 
community  having  hardly  been  drawn,  the  first  principles 
of  justice  having  hardly  been  considered.  As  Morris 
once  said  succinctly:  "The  industrial  situation  is  bad. 
I  wish  it  would  better." 

It  is  seen  that  political  equality  does  not  mean  indus- 
trial equality  and  that  manhood  suffrage  does  not  bring 
manly  independence.  And  save  for  the  professional  poli- 
ticians no  one  engages  very  seriously  today  in  govern- 
ment. We  look  back  upon  our  political  declarations  very 
much  as  we  read  the  XXXIX  Articles,  or  the  Book  of 
Homilies,  surprised  at  the  disputes  they  occasioned :  "As 
certain  Anabaptists  do  falsely  boast,"  "As  the  Palagians 
do  vainly  talk" — how  little  "understanded  of  the  people" 
are  these  differences  now !  The  political  issues  of  the  so- 


14  INTRODUCTION 

called  political  parties  are  equally  obsolete  and  outworn. 
Men  belong  to  parties  by  tradition,  accident,  or  accord- 
ing to  locality,  no  longer  by  conviction — because  there  are 
no  longer  political  questions  at  issue.  The  real  problems 
of  life  in  America  are  neither  ecclesiastical  nor  govern- 
mental: they  are  industrial.  What  men  are  struggling 
for  today  is  industrial  freedom.  We  have  still  to  make 
any  genuine  Declaration  of  Independence,  or  to  write 
a  Constitution  adapted  to  the  needs  of  a  non-political 
community.  Doubtless  it  has  been  well  that  those  who 
were  publicly  inclined  have  had  the  bauble  of  government 
to  play  with.  They  have  toyed  eloquently  with  the  sur- 
face of  things  and  left  the  deeper  forces  opportunity  to 
become  conscious  and  gather  for  emergence.  In  the  year 
1899  more  than  fourteen  thousand  laws  were  enacted  by 
legislative  bodies  in  the  United  States,  not  that  laws  were 
needed,  but  that  legislatures  might  have  occupation.  If, 
in  the  revolution  now  upon  us,  our  political  institutions 
should  be  greatly  changed  or  even  swept  away,  it  would 
not  much  matter.  Administration  is  practically  the  only 
vital  function  left  in  any  state ;  for  the  most  part  our  legis- 
lation is  simply  for  the  sake  of  legislation.  If  government 
had  much  significance  today,  it  would  point  to  the  vast 
degeneracy  of  peoples.  For,  as  Tacitus  penned,  "When 
the  state  is  corrupt  then  the  laws  are  most  multiplied." 
As  it  is  with  us  today  a  corrupt  government  may  be  the 
sign  of  a  healthy  popular  condition,  an  indication  of  the 
fact  that  men  are  attending  to  the  vital  issues  of  life. 
What  is  needed  at  this  hour  is  not  to  establish  free  govern- 
ment but  to  develop  free  men — "not,"  as  William  Morris 
once  said,  "to  establish  socialism,  but  to  educate  socialists." 


DEMOCRATIC  ART. 
I. 

Democracy,  to  repeat,  is  not  merely  a  political  term :  it 
is  a  universal  idea,  whose  entertainment  determines  con- 
duct in  every  one  of  the  spheres  of  human  activity.  It 
will  not  prove  itself  established  until  its  principles  have 
permeated  society  in  every  part.  Its  function  is  to  bring 
to  growth  out  of  the  social  soil  strictly  autochthonic  edu- 
cation, religion,  philosophy,  and  arts,  which  shall  be  uni- 
form with  progress ;  corroborating  in  the  fullest  degree 
the  immediate  land  and  contemporary  life. 

The  progress  of  transformation  and  adjustment  which 
the  fine  arts  are  undergoing,  in  passing  from  an  aristo- 
cratic to  a  democratic  basis,  is  one  of  the  most  important 
and  significant,  though  generally  unrecognized,  move- 
ments of  the  modern  world.  Although  the  subject  is 
beset  with  difficulties,  I  propose,  in  this  first  study,  to  ex- 
amine with  some  care  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  specific 
changes,  compelled  in  art  by  the  Time-Spirit,  in  the  midst 
of  the  general  results  flowing  from  universal  emancipa- 
tion. The  movement  is,  of  course,  incomplete  in  its  opera- 
tion. The  present  period  is  one  of  transition.  An  ade- 
quately representative  art  does  not  exist  today  in  any 
democratic  community,  not  even  in  any  portion  of  Amer- 
ica, which  is  still  the  most  perfect  and  consistent  embodi- 

15 


16  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

ment  of  the  democratic  idea,  and  in  whose  bounds,  there- 
fore, we  should  expect  the  evidences  of  artistic  freedom. 

If  a  reason  be  sought  for  the  insufficiency  of  American 
art,  two  facts  will  be  found  to  have  a  bearing  upon  the 
question.  One  is  the  commonly  recognized  truth  that 
the  actual  scenery  of  the  American  land  and  the  events 
of  its  population  are  themselves  transcendent  in  their  po- 
etic quality.  As  the  French  Revolution,  by  transferring  the 
drama  of  life  from  the  stage  to  the  streets,  ruined  the 
theatres  of  Paris,  so  the  very  variety  and  intensity  of  our 
own  dramatic  life  make  us  content  to  forego  the  simu- 
lation of  the  play  and  the  poem.  At  the  time  of  the 
Spanish-American  war  it  was  complained  that  the  strug- 
gle brought  forth  no  poetry  commensurate  with  the  occa- 
sion. '  But  would  not  the  events  themselves,  brought 
close  to  us  through  the  medium  of  the  daily  press,  re- 
corded there  vividly  and  dramatically,  render  the  poetic 
celebration  of  deeds  comparatively  uninteresting?  This 
is  the  moment  of  being  and  doing.  Our  "Iliad"  is  still 
in  the  making. 

Another  fact  connects  the  foregoing  with  this  discus- 
sion, namely,  that  our  art,  however  potential  in  its  subject- 
quality,  is  still  formed,  to  a  considerable  degree,  under 
the  guidance  of  the  traditions  of  feudal  Europe.  To  this 
day  Paris  is  the  Mecca  of  painters.  The  foreign  melo- 
drama, false  to  our  notions  of  heroism,  remains  the  ac- 
cepted model  of  playwrights,  rather  than  native  plays  of 
the  type  of  Herne's  "Shore  Acres"  or  Thomas's  "In 
Mizzoura."  Dvorak's  "American  Symphony"  contains 
nothing  distinctively  American ;  Damrosch's  "Scarlet  Let- 
ter" is  Germanic  in  everything  but  subject.  And  not  only 
is  our  creative  art  formed  under  direction,  but  the  ac- 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  17 

cepted  principles  of  criticism  are  traditional ;  and  we  look 
at  even  the  art  that  is  modern  through  the  eyes  of  for- 
eign courts.  Emerson's  "American  Scholar"  was  called 
"the  scholar's  Declaration  of  Independence" :  that  revolu- 
tion is  completed.  But  the  declaration  of  artistic  and 
critical  independence  has  yet  to  be  formulated  and  written. 
It  must  be  understood,  therefore,  that  any  conclusion  re- 
specting either  the  descriptive  or  the  speculative  phases 
of  democratic  art  and  criticism  is  but  tentative.  The 
event  awaits  the  completion  of  the  democratic  movement. 
Enough,  however,  has  been  accomplished,  and  tendencies 
are  clearly  enough  defined,  to  enable  us  to  understand,  in 
part  by  speculation,  in  part  by  observation,  the  character- 
istics of  democratic  art. 

These  characteristics  may  first  be  formulated  by  draw- 
ing a  contrast  between  aristocracy  and  democracy  in  their 
political  and  social  aspects.  As  pointed  out  by  Professor 
Santayana,  such  preliminary  scrutiny  and  definition  of 
political  distinctions  will  be  found  to  be  valuable  because 
of  the  aesthetic  ingredient  that  all  social  ideas  contain, 
inasmuch  as  this  or  that  idea  is  generally  entertained  on 
account  of  its  appeal  to  the  imagination  as  well  as  to  the 
reason ;  and  a  final  selection  of  any  idea  is  made  as  much 
on  the  grounds  of  its  propriety  as  of  its  service.  When 
the  members  of  any  society  prize  the  political  form  they 
have  achieved  as  having  value  in  itself,  as  somewhat  in- 
trinsically and  eternally  right  and  beautiful, — when,  that 
is,  the  subjects  of  a  king  consecrate  the  law  and  order  of 
their  society  as  something  inherently  beautiful,  and  the 
citizens  of  the  republic  are  pleased  to  contemplate  their 
structureless,  but  practical,  democracy  as  something  di- 
vinely just  and  righteous, — the  social  imagination  receives 


18  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

a  coloring  that  may  be  called  aesthetic ;  and  the  artistic 
product,  in  its  turn,  is  consciously  or  unconsciously  made 
to  conform  to  the  general  principle.  It  is  historically, 
as  philosophically,  true  that  the  fine  arts  correspond,  in 
general  aspects  at  least,  often  in  the  minutest  detail,  to 
the  modes  of  thought  and  feeling  that  characterize  social 
conditions. 

Socially  an  aristocratic  society  exhibits  three  special 
features ;  viz.,  conventionality  as  to  form,  exclusiveness  as 
to  content,  conservatism  in  matters  of  progress.  A  dem- 
ocracy, on  the  other  hand,  is  unconventional,  almost 
structureless  in  its  forms,  inclusive  in  its  content,  pro- 
gressive in  its  ideals. 

An  examination  of  artistic  production  with  respect  to 
form,  content,  and  general  attitude  toward  life  and 
thought,  in  a  manner  suggested  by  Professor  Dowden  and 
John  Addington  Symonds  in  their  essays  upon  the  sub- 
ject, will  give  the  definition  of  the  two  classes  of  art  in 
question. 

In  its  forms  aristocratic  art  will  first  be  dignified :  it 
must  wear  the  dress  prescribed  by  custom,  and  defer  to 
the  proprieties  that  hedge  the  throne.  Composition  is 
determined  by  the  standard  of  "good  form,"  which  has 
been  established  by  the  critical  class,  and  is  maintained 
in  force  by  tradition.  Aristocratic  art  is  largely  external, 
but  perfect  within  the  limits  of  the  "grand  manner," 
and  fixed  in  its  "classic"  perfection  by  authoritative  con- 
ventions. 

As  a  patrician  shuns  the  vulgar  phrase  in  the  interest 
of  culture,  so  it  seeks  to  preserve  its  refinement  by  avoid- 
ing the  vulgar  person.  Its  art,  accordingly,  is  exclusive 
in  its  subject-matter;  only  those  characters  and  themes 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  19 

having  admission  which,  by  their  nobility  and  dignity,  are 
thought  to  be  susceptible  of  artistic  treatment.  The  pas- 
sions that  run  from  lord  to  lady  inspire  the  lyric  song; 
while  "knights'  and  ladies'  gentle  deeds"  constitute  the 
scope  of  epic  or  dramatic  action.  In  pastorals  shepherds 
and  shepherdesses  of  the  field  appear;  but  the  dainty 
Corydons  and  Chloes  that  play  at  keeping  sheep  never 
see  a  pasture ;  and  the  sheep  that  play  at  being  kept  never 
enter  a  fold.  A  really  common  person  may  enter  upon 
the  stage  to  play  buffoonery  or  point  a  biting  satire,  but 
never  to  maintain  an  independent  interest  or  destiny.  On 
Shakespeare's  stage  fates  were  given  only  to  kings  and 
nobles.  It  was  doubtless  his  own  amibtion  to  have 

"A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene." 

Hen.  V.  I.,  1. 

Toward  life  aristocracy  ever  maintains  the  conserva- 
tive attitude.  It  exists  by  gifts  of  the  past.  Its  power  and 
privileges,  private  and  public,  are  derived  by  inheritance. 
The  will  of  the  father  governs  the  career  of  the  child: 
the  experience  of  age  restrains  the  creative  impulses  of 
youth.  An  aristocracy  resists  the  encroachment  of  new 
ideas:  it  doubts  nothing,  desires  nothing,  holds  perma- 
nently to  beliefs,  is  content  with  metes  and  bounds.  Its 
art  pictures  in  the  past  the  Golden  Age.  The  virtues  it 
extols  are  those  that  belong  to  feudalism,  loyalty  to  the 
king,  obedience  to  inherited  authority. 

The  popularization  of  art  results  in  forms  that  are 
fluid  and  varied,  in  subjects  fully  comprehensive  in  their 
scope,  in  ideals  that  freely  enlarge  and  advance.  The 
one  word  comprehending  these  features,  the  word  which 


20  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

justifies  the  use  of  the  term  "democratic"  in  characteriz- 
ing them,  is  "freedom" — the  freedom  to  choose  without 
restraint  forms  and  subjects,  making  possible  a  sincere 
expression  of  personality,  which  is  the  fundamental  con- 
tent of  all  true  art ;  the  freedom  to  experiment  and  proph- 
esy, rendering  easy  a  progression  to  higher  and  sincerer 
modes  of  expression. 

As  the  leading  principle  of  a  democracy  is  individual- 
ism, the  art  that  arises  from  among  the  people  has  for  its 
chief  characteristic  infinite  variety  of  form.  The  one 
effort  of  democratic  art  being  to  exploit  individuals,  di- 
verse from  each  other,  the  modes  of  utterance  change  to 
correspond  to  the  nature  of  the  man.  Every  artist  be- 
comes a  law  unto  himself,  and  learns  to  follow  an  impres- 
sionistic method  to  the  full  license  of  egotism.  The  ac- 
ceptance of  all  the  facts  of  life  involves  a  primitive  direct- 
ness of  method  in  exhibiting  such  facts.  All  true  realism 
contains  the  personal  quality,  the  individualization  of  sight 
and  interpretation.  Styles,  therefore,  in  realistic  art,  are 
simple,  fluid,  and  various.  Instead  of  a  single  standard 
of  established  "good  form,"  a  hundred  plebian  modes  of 
significance  arise.  The  canon  of  order  in  variety  is  sup- 
planted by  that  of  significance  with  variety.  The  symmet- 
rical unity  of  aristocratic  art  gives  place  to  multiple  mean- 
ing. 

Now,  irregularity  of  form  is  the  very  genius  of  an  art 
that  is  controlled  by  an  inner  principle.  Ruskin  said  of  a 
Gothic  building:  "If  one  part  always  answers  to  another 
part,  it  is  sure  to  be  a  bad  building ;  and  the  greater  and 
more  conspicuous  the  irregularities,  the  greater  the 
chances  are  that  it  is  a  good  one."  Imperfections  of  form 
in  painting,  discordant  notes  in  music,  vulgar  phrases  in 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  21 

poetry,  are  artistically  permissible  so  long  as  these  are 
significant  of  character.  Individual  sincerity  governs 
manner,  rather  than  the  conventions  of  a  dictatorial  ar- 
tistic class. 

A  second  great  principle  of  democracy  is  equality. 
Equality  opposes  comprehensiveness  to  exclusiveness. 
Democratic  philosophy  asserts  that  the  most  common  sub- 
jects of  nature,  and  the  most  common  events  of  life,  are 
instinct  with  latent  principles  which,  when  detected,  ap- 
prove themselves  divine.  So  long  as  the  all-inclusive  light 
falls  round  the  objects  of  the  universe,  so  long  will  love 
and  sympathy  comprehend  the  divinity  that  appears  uni- 
versally in  objects.  Nothing  in  man  or  in  nature  is  un- 
poetical,  if  treated  sincerely  by  a  poet  who  has  the  large- 
ness and  the  insight  to  penetrate  below  externals  to  the 
heart  and  essence  of  things.  There  is  nothing  profane 
save  profane  eyes  and  minds.  The  acceptance  of  the  uni- 
versal and  unseen  is  rendered  imperative ;  for  only,  I  be- 
lieve, by  the  transcendent  idea  can  each  fact  and  person 
be  given  place  and  significance  in  the  scheme  of  the 
world.  The  democratic  principle  springs  from  faith — a 
faith  becoming  more  and  more  absolute  as  man  rises  in 
the  scale  of  being.  In  every  individual  the  prophetic  eye 
perceives  the  revelation  in  outlines,  however  dim,  of  gods 
and  heroes.  By  virtue  of  faith  the  note  of  popular  art  is 
inclusiveness.  Love  casts  out  scorn  and  denial.  High 
life  and  low  life  contribute  their  characteristic  themes. 

Goethe  defined  good  society  as  that  which  furnished  no 
materials  for  poetry ;  and  Mr.  Symonds  says :  "How 
hardly  shall  they  who  wear  evening  clothes  and  ball 
dresses  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  art."  But  democratic 
art  does  not  exclude  good  society.  Society,  bending  and 


22  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

gliding  at  the  dance,  has  a  specific  note  of  grace  no  less  to 
be  admired  and  cherished  than  that  attending  the  superb 
poise  of  the  reaper  as  he  swings  his  sickle,  or  the  strong 
flex  of  the  blacksmith's  muscles  as  he  strikes  the  glowing 
iron.  The  older  themes  of  aristocracy  are  not  to  be  neg- 
lected. Why  should  they  be?  Heroism  remains  heroic 
still.  The  youth  of  a  Western  village  may  hearken  to 
the  shout  of  Achilles  as  it  rings  out  on  the  plains  of  Troy ; 
he  may  shudder  at  the  heroic  suffering  of  Prometheus 
undergoing  chastening  like  a  god;  he  may  spring  up  at 
the  sound  of  Roland's  or  Oliver's  trumpet  to  recover  a 
lost  field  ;  but  while  not  failing  to  recognize  the  noble  hero- 
ism of  god-like  action,  he  is,  as  a  member  of  the  common 
mass,  more  concerned  about  the  lovely  qualities  that  attach 
to  all  human  life.  The  hero  at  the  plow  or  the  forge,  the 
heroine  at  the  loom  or  in  the  kitchen,  may  be  dignified  be- 
yond our  means  of  expressing  by  patiently  enduring  the 
edicts  of  fate,  and  by  suffering  with  hardihood  all  tragic 
woe.  "Lads  a-hold  of  fire-engines  and  hook-and-ladder 
ropes  no  less  to  me,"  said  the  bard  of  democracy,  "than  the 
gods  of  the  antique  wars."  "We  owe  to  genius,"  says  Em- 
erson, "always  the  same  debt  of  lifting  the  curtain  of  the 
common,  and  showing  us  that  divinities  are  sitting  in  the 
seeming  gang  of  gypsies  and  peddlers." 

It  is  a  feature  of  democracy  that  it  looks  to  the  future 
for  its  justification.  As  yet  the  social  ideal  of  democracy 
is  unrealized.  The  New  World  is  destined  to  vast  growths 
and  unparalleled  achievements.  Whitman  announces  for 
America  "splendors  and  majesties  to  make  all  previous 
politics  of  the  earth  insignificant."  He  apostrophizes  the 
New  World  in  his  most  optimistic  strain : 
"Thou  mental,  moral  orb — thou  New,  indeed  new,  Spiritual  World! 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  23 

The  Present  holds  thee  not — for  such  vast  growth  as  thine, 
For  such  unparallel'd  flight  as  thine,  such  brood  as  thine, 
The  Future  only  holds  thee  and  can  hold  thee." 

Bold  in  this  promise,  the  pioneer  of  progress,  accepting 
what  accrues  to  him  from  the  past  not  as  an  obligation, 
but  as  a  free  inheritance,  moves  gladly  forward  toward  an 
ideal  goal ;  believing  he  is  marching  toward  something 
great  and  fortunate.  The  Golden  Age  lies  somewhere  in 
the  twentieth  century — always  beyond,  a  "Flying  Per- 
fect." The  poet  is  given  to  celebrate  not  the  advance 
that  has  been  made,  but  the  progress  that  shall  be ;  and  if 
he  look  to  the  past  at  all,  it  is  to  gain  ground  for 
prophecy.  Shelley,  despairing  over  the  past,  restless  in 
the  present,  constructing  an  ideal  world  in  a  far-distant 
future,  fully  incarnated  the  democratic  spirit.  William 
Morris,  though  he  dreamt  of  the  past,  yet  had  eyes  ever 
fixed  on  ideal  landscapes,  ideal  social  systems,  ideal  fel- 
lowships. With  characteristic  optimism,  Whitman  an- 
nounced :  "All  that  the  past  was  not  the  future  will  be ;" 
and  to  that  future  the  poet  trusted  his  ideas,  never  doubt- 
ing that  an  audience  would  be  raised  up  to  justify  him. 
Such  usage  is  significant  of  democratic  procedure.  "Noth- 
ing conceivable,"  said  De  Tocqueville,  "is  so  petty,  so  in- 
sipid, so  crowded  with  petty  interests,  in  one  word  so  un- 
poetic,  as  the  life  of  a  man  in  the  United  States ;  but 
amongst  the  thoughts  it  suggests  there  is  always  one 
which  is  full  of  poetry,  and  this  is  the  hidden  nerve  which 
gives  vigor  to  the  whole  frame."  This  thought,  so  vital 
and  poetic,  De  Tocqueville  goes  on  to  say,  is  the  perfecti- 
bility of  human  nature.  To  each  in  some  degree  comes 
the  splendid  vision  of  the  not  distant  future  when  person- 
al independence,  good-will,  charity,  comradeship,  shall  be 


24  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  rule  and  practice,  the  joy  and  independence  of  the 
race.  The  attitude  of  hope  and  expectancy  encourages  the 
formulation  of  new  ideals,  and  experimentation  with  re- 
spect to  new  art  forms. 

Aristocratic  art  is  typical :  it  lays  aside  the  common  at-. 
tributes  and  seeks  the  type-forms.  Democratic  art  is  indi- 
vidual and  real :  it  accepts  the  personal  view,  and  invests 
common  attributes  with  meaning.  The  one  gives  unity  to 
the  beautiful ;  the  other  expands  and  diversifies  it.  The 
one,  being  reminiscent,  is  static ;  the  other,  being  prospect- 
ive, is  dynamic.  The  one  harmonizes  what  is  given:  the 
other  suggests  what  is  to  be.  The  note  of  the  one  is  de- 
spair: that  of  the  other  is  triumph  and  joy.  The  one 
is  bound :  the  other  is  free. 


II. 


All  the  fine  arts,  with  the  exception  perhaps  of  sculp- 
ture, which  has  never  undergone  romantic  revival,  might 
be  drawn  upon  to  illustrate  the  various  effects  of  the 
democratization  of  art.  Architecture  was  the  first  of  the 
arts  to  be  popularized.  We  should  expect  such  an  event, 
inasmuch  as  architecture  is  the  most  intimate  of  the  arts, 
the  most  closely  related  to  our  daily  life ;  for  though  we 
may  not  be  able  to  write  a  poem,  or  to  paint,  we  are  most 
of  us  called  upon  at  some  time  to  build  something,  a  home 
at  least.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  architecture,  up  to  the 
time  of  the  invention  of  printing,  was  the  chief  register 
of  human  thought;  and  its  forms  corresponded  most 
closely  with  the  dominant  ideas  of  history.  The  whole 
series  of  structural  changes  which  freedom  accomplishes 
is  exhibited  in  the  history  of  architecture  from  the  time  of 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  25 

the  Hindu  and  Egyptian  temples,  the  forms  of  which 
answered  to  the  conditions  of  a  theocracy,  to  the  period 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  Gothic  cathedral  took  shape 
under  conditions  of  greater  freedom. 

The  general  character  of  ancient  architecture  is  immo- 
bility. Conventionality  covered  the  temples  like  another 
petrifaction.  Primitive  types  were  consecrated  to  the  em- 
bodiment of  a  fixed  and  most  rigorous  dogma.  Tradition- 
al lines  were  retained  from  century  to  century  without 
variation.  As  the  stone  embodied  an  obscure  symbolism, 
the  interpretation  of  a  special  priestly  class  was  required, 
the  directive  functions  of  whom  have  been  performed  by 
the  critics  of  culture  and  good  taste  in  every  aristocratic 
age.  Victor  Hugo,  in  the  Fifth  Book  of  his  "Notre 
Dame,"  relates  the  story  of  the  escape  of  the  mediaeval 
cathedral  from  the  authoritative  absolutism  of  the  priest, 
and  how,  for  the  first  time  since  the  Greek,  the  religious 
temple  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  artist,  and  became  the 
property  of  the  imagination,  of  poetry,  of  the  people. 
Thought,  it  appears,  was  free  in  the  Middle  Ages  in  the 
one  direction  of  architecture.  The  modern  freedom  of  the 
press  is  scarcely  greater.  The  creative  genius  of  the  peo- 
ple, repressed  from  political  and  social  activity  by  feudal- 
ism, and  from  religious  construct! veness  by  ecclesiastical 
absolutism,  emerged  in  the  one  way  left  open — the  way  of 
architecture.  The  cathedral  of  Roman  and  Byzantine  tra- 
ditions furnished  the  conventional  ground ;  but,  when  the 
mobility  and  spiritual  expressiveness  of  stone  were  once 
discovered,  forms  tractable  to  thought  and  capable  of  in- 
finite variation  were  rapidly  developed.  If  a  genius  was 
born  he  became  a  builder.  The  other  arts,  being  more 
restricted  in  their  expressiveness,  were  subordinated  to 


20  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

this  one  achievement.  Architecture  became  a  co-operative 
art,  the  art  of  the  arts,  the  art  of  the  whole  people.  The 
sculptor  must  fill  the  niches  and  cap  the  pinnacles  with 
appropriate  figures ;  the  painter  must  decorate  the  walls 
with  scenic  frescoes,  and  design  forms  and  select  colors 
for  the  windows ;  the  musician  must  raise  the  lofty  organ 
to  complete  the  mystery  of  vaulted  roof  with  vanishing 
sound ;  the  poet  must  exercise  his  genius  in  the  composi- 
tion of  canticle  and  responsions.  A  sublime  unity  of  the 
arts  was  thus  accomplished  to  enhance  the  glory  of  the 
one  free  art. 

The  effect  of  the  popularization  of  architecture  may  be 
seen  in  the  very  enthusiasm  for  structure  that  was  engen- 
dered in  the  free  cities  of  Europe.  During  the  period  of 
emancipatory  process  so  many  cathedrals  arose  in  every 
part  of  Christendom,  that  we  can  hardly  believe  the  report 
of  their  number.  With  invention  unhindered,  rapid  and 
innumerable  changes  took  place  in  styles.  In  three  cen- 
turies the  aspect  of  the  standard  cathedral  was  completely 
transformed.  Upon  the  nature  of  the  changes,  William 
Morris,  in  his  essay  on  "Gothic  Architecture,"  makes  the 
following  comment : 

"If  some  abbot  or  monk  of  the  eleventh  century  could  have  been 
brought  back  to  his  rebuilt  church  of  the  thirteenth,  he  might 
almost  have  thought  some  miracle  had  taken  place:  the  huge 
cylindrical  or  square  piers  transformed  into  clusters  of  slim, 
elegant  shafts;  the  narrow,  round-headed  windows  supplanted  by 
tall,  wide  lancets,  elegantly  glazed  with  pattern  and  subject;  the 
bold  vault  spanning  the  wide  nave  instead  of  the  flat  wooden  ceil- 
ing of  past  days;  the  extreme  richness  of  the  mouldings  with 
which  every  member  is  treated;  the  elegance  and  order  of  the 
floral  sculpture,  the  grace  and  good  drawing  of  the  imagery." 
(Pp.  38,  39.) 

Free   creation   thus    resulted   in   every    improvement. 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  27 

Though  a  logical  style  was  finally  developed,  there  was 
not  at  any  time  a  fixity  of  form.  Throughout  the  period 
of  growth  the  use  was  granted  of  material  of  any  kind, 
arches  of  any  span  or  altitude,  pillars  of  any  degree  of 
strength  or  tenuity,  windows  of  any  size  or  shape,  and 
details  of  any  amount  of  elaboration.  Says  Morris : 

"Slim  elegance  the  Gothic  could  produce,  or  sturdy  solidity,  as 
its  moods  went.  Material  was  not  its  master,  but  its  servant; 
marble  was  not  necessary  to  its  beauty ;  stone  would  do,  or  brick, 
or  timber.  In  default  of  carving,  it  would  set  together  cubes  of 
glass  or  whatsoever  was  shining  and  fair-hued,  and  cover  every 
portion  of  its  interiors  with  a  fairy  coat  of  splendor;  or  would 
mould  mere  plaster  into  intricacy  of  work  scarce  to  be  followed, 
but  never  wearying  the  eyes  with  its  delicacy  and  expressiveness 
of  line.  Smoothness  it  loves,  the  utmost  finish  that  the  hand 
can  give;  but  if  material  or  skill  fail,  the  rougher  work  shall  so 
be  wrought  that  it  also  shall  please  us  with  its  inventive  sug- 
gestion. For  the  iron  rule  of  the  classical  period,  the  acknowledged 
slavery  of  everyone  but  the  great  man,  was  gone,  and  freedom 
had  taken  its  place."  (Id.,  pp.  32,  33.) 

With  increasing  license  the  priestly  symbolism  was 
modified ;  and  a  meaning  foreign  to  religion  would  be 
embodied  in  a  door,  or  a  facade,  sometimes  in  an  entire 
church.  As  Victor  Hugo  remarks  in  "Notre  Dame :" 

"No  idea  can  be  given  of  the  liberties  taken  by  architects.  We 
find  capitals  interwoven  with  monks  and  nuns  in  shameful  atti- 
tudes, as  in  the  Salle  des  Cheminees  of  the  Palace  of  Justice  at 
Paris;  we  find  Noah's  adventures  carved  at  full  length,  as  under 
the  great  porch  at  Bourges;  or  we  find  a  tipsy  monk,  with  the 
ears  of  an  ass  and  a  glass  in  his  hand,  laughing  in  the  face  of 
an  entire  community,  as  in  the  lavatory  of  the  Abbey  of  Bocher- 
ville.  Sometimes  a  doorway,  a  facade,  an  entire  church,  offers 
a  symbolic  meaning  hostile  to  the  Church.  Guillaume  de  Paris 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  Nicholas  Flamel  in  the  fifteenth,  wrote 


28  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

such  seditious  pages.  Saint  Jacques  de  la  Boucherie  was  a  church 
of  opposition  throughout."  (English  trans.,  Sterling  edit.,  pp. 
213,  214.) 

With  the  restrictions  of  dogma  removed,  the  interests 
of  beauty  or  significance  alone  determined  the  artist's 
plan. 

The  secret  of  the  evolution  was  found  in  the  freedom  of 
the  workmen.  Each  builder  and  mason  was  at  liberty  to 
leave  some  evidence  of  his  own  individuality  upon  the 
materials,  some  mark  of  his  pleasure  in  service.  The  chief 
architect  was  only  the  master-workman ;  and  the  masons 
and  carvers  were  architects  in  their  turn ;  mingling  fancy 
and  imagination  with  their  technical  skill,  and  giving  to 
each  object  the  vitality  of  spontaneous  design  and  execu- 
tion. Freedom,  in  short,  was  the  essential  quality  of 
Gothic  architecture. 

For  full  three  hundred  years  the  development  of  an 
individualized  architecture  continued — a  bright,  creative, 
golden  period.  When  the  printing-press  was  invented 
"the  book,"  as  Victor  Hugo  puts  it,  "destroyed  the  build- 
ing." Mind  had  found  other  channels  for  its  activity. 
But  the  Gothic  cathedrals  accomplished  their  purpose ; 
and  they  stand  to  witness  forever  to  the  advantages  of 
freedom — a  promise  of  democratic  art. 

The  freedom,  originality,  variety,  and  progress  that 
marked  the  making  of  Gothic  architecture  are  the  char- 
acteristics that  distinguish  the  modern  structures  being 
produced  on  American  and  democratic  soil.  The  waves 
of  classical  renaissance  that  swept  across  Europe  in  ages 
subsequent  to  the  Gothic,  leaving  in  its  recession  such 
masses  of  formal,  pedantic  structures  as  St.  Paul's  in 
London  and  its  group  of  parish  churches, — just  meant  to 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  29 

tie  the  homes  of  cultivated,  unenthusiastic  ecclesiasticism, 
— had  but  little  effect  upon  the  architectural  movement  of 
the  New  World.  Architecture  in  America,  especially  dur- 
ing the  last  fifty  years,  is  conspicuous  by  the  quantity, 
variety,  and  originality  of  native  forms,  and  by  the  free- 
dom with  which  the  traditional  models  are  employed.  The 
leading  characteristic  is  a  readiness  to  strike  out  new 
paths  under  the  requirement  of  changing  conditions  and 
of  practical  considerations.  The  principle  of  individual- 
ity, especially  in  the  newer  cities  of  the  West,  controls 
domestic  structure  to  the  end  of  multiplying  de- 
signs almost  infinitely,  many  of  which,  it  is  true,  are  pain- 
ful and  monstrous  to  classic  good  taste  (the  penalty 
democracy  pays  for  its  freedom) ;  but  many  more  are 
full  of  artistic  beauty  and  promise. 

Conspicuous  secular  architecture  may  be  said  to  con- 
stitute America's  contribution  to  the  modern.  The  epochs 
of  popes  and  kings  have  passed;  and  this  is  no  age  in 
which  to  build  churches  or  palaces.  Secularism  and  in- 
dustrial democracy  are  keys  to  the  present.  We  build 
libraries,  school  houses  and  railroad  stations.  The  com- 
mercial temple,  largely  the  product  of  the  American  mind, 
is  the  exact  equivalent  of  the  modern  business  ideal.  The 
daring,  strength,  Titanic  energy,  intelligence  and  majesty 
evidenced  in  many  of  the  modern  business  temples  in- 
dicate precisely  one,  and  perhaps  the  dominant,  feature 
of  American  character.  These  buildings  are  significant 
in  their  principles  of  structure,  rather  than  formal.  They 
observe  the  logic  of  function.  They  are  not  built,  that  is, 
primarily,  to  display  artistic  proportions,  but  to  serve 
a  purpose  and  fulfill  a  need.  The  Time-Spirit  was  their 


30  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

architect;  necessity  was  their  craftsmaster.     In  them  a 
new  group  of  social  conditions  found  a  habitation. 

The  growth  of  population  in  cities,  the  centralization  of 
business  in  a  "down-town"  district,  the  co-operation  of 
men  necessitated  by  economy  and  despatch,  the  abundance 
and  cheapness  of  iron  and  steel,  the  convenience  and  ser- 
viceability of  steam  heat  and  electric  light,  the  quick 
transportation  made  possible  by  the  elevator — these  eco- 
nomic forces  and  mechanical  devices  have  combined  to 
make  such  structures  as  the  Masonic  Temple  in  Chicago 
masterpieces  of  modernity,  admirably  answering  to  new 
conditions ;  and  structures  as  full  of  meaning  and  ideal 
content  as  any  that  architectural  history  records.  In  dis- 
play of  simplicity,  in  the  use  of  broad  surfaces,  in  control 
of  the  lines  of  height,  and  in  the  artistic  handling  of  mass, 
the  Chicago  group  of  office  buildings  is  unique' among  the 
architecture  of  the  world.  These  are  proud  structures, 
defiant  in  their  altitude,  every  story  soaring  and  exulting. 
In  their  pride  and  altitude  their  artistic  feeling  lies.  I 
admire  the  daring,  wisdom,  and  genius  of  the  men  who 
designed  and  erected  them.  The  genius  of  men  like  Root 
and  Hardenberg  marks  an  epoch  in  art.  They  were  no 
hawkers  of  worn-out  creeds ;  neither  were  they  infidel. 
But  actuated  by  a  new  motive  they  inaugurated  an  archi- 
tectural movement  that  may  be  said  to  be  the  only  genu- 
inely new  and  creative  tendency  in  architecture  since  the 
completion  of  the  Gothic  in  the  Middle  Ages.  When  to 
the  strength  of  a  general  idea  are  added  the  delicacy  and 
refinement  of  a  personal  conception,  when  the  strictly  ar- 
tistic sentiment  is  perceived  and  accentuated,  democracy 
may  point  to  its  commercial  structures  with  the  pride  of  a 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  31 

great  achievement.     They  spring  from  freedom:  in  the 
lines  of  freedom  they  are  elaborated. 

In  a  few  instances,  notably  in  the  work  of  Mr.  Louis 
H.  Sullivan,  the  architect  of  the  Auditorium  and  the 
Schiller  theatre  at  Chicago,  I  believe  the  signs  of  a  new 
and  enlarged  architecture  are  visible.  Mr.  Sullivan,  more 
than  any  other  builder  known  to  me,  founds  his  works  in 
personal  character  and  personal  responsibility  and  perme- 
ates them  with  poetic  feeling.  He  is  the  exponent  in 
theory  and  in  practice  of  poetic  architecture  by  which  he 
means  an  architecture  that  rises  freshly  out  of  the  heart 
of  nature  and  out  of  the  soul  of  man,  seeking  to  typify 
the  harmoniously  interblended  rhythms  of  nature  and  hu- 
manity in  a  form  characterized  by  mobile  equilibrium  or 
static  rhythm.  In  his  essay  "Objective  and  Subjective," 
Mr.  Sullivan  explains  his  theory : 

"I  hold  that  the  architectural  art,  thus  far,  has  failed  to  reach 
its  highest  development,  its  fullest  capability  of  imagination,  of 
thought  and  expression,  because  it  has  not  yet  found  a  way  to  be- 
come truly  plastic;  it  does  not  yet  respond  to  the  poet's  touch. 
That  it  is  today  the  only  art  for  which  the  multitudinous  rhythms 
of  outward  nature,  the  manifold  fluctuations  of  man's  inner  be- 
ing, have  no  significance,  no  place. 

That  the  Greek  architecture,  unerring  as  far  as  it  went — 
and  it  went  very  far  indeed  in  one  direction — was  but  one  radius 
within  the  field  of  a  possible  circle  of  expression.  That,  though 
perfect  in  its  eyesight,  definite  in  its  desires,  clear  in  its  pur- 
pose, it  was  not  resourceful  in  forms;  that  it  lacked  the  flexi- 
bility and  the  humanity  to  respond  to  the  varied  and  constantly 
shifting  desires  of  the  heart. 

It  was  a  pure,  it  was  a  noble  art;  wherefore  we  call  it  classic: 
but,  after  all,  it  was  an  apologetic  art;  for,  while  possessing 
serenity,  it  lacked  the  divinely  human  element  of  mobility.  The 
Greeks  never  caught  the  secret  of  the  changing  of  the  seasons, 
the  orderly  and  complete  sequence  of  their  rhythms  within  the 


32  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

calmly  moving  year.  Nor  did  this  self-same  Greek  know  what 
we  now  know  of  Nature's  bounty:  for  music  in  those  days  had 
not  been  born;  this  lovely  friend,  approaching  man  to  man,  had 
not  yet  begun  to  bloom  as  a  rose,  to  exhale  its  wondrous  perfume. 

That  the  Gothic  architecture,  with  sombre,  ecstatic  eye,  with  its 
thought  far  above  with  Christ  in  the  heavens,  seeing  but  little 
here  below,  feverish  and  overwrought,  taking  comfort  in  garden- 
ing and  plant-life,  sympathizing  deeply  with  Nature's  visible 
forms,  evolved  a  copious  and  rich  variety  of  incidental  expressions, 
but  lacked  the  unitary  comprehension,  the  absolute  consciousness 
and  mastery  of  pure  form  that  can  come  alone  of  unclouded  and 
serene  contemplation  of  perfect  repose  and  peace  of  mind. 

I  believe,  in  other  words,  that  the  Greek  knew  the  statics,  the 
Goth  the  dynamics  of  the  art,  but  that  neither  of  them  suspected 
the  mobile  equilibrium  of  it — neither  of  them  divined  the  movement 
and  stability  of  Nature.  Failing  in  this,  both  have  forever  fallen 
ehort,  and  must  pass  away  when  the  true,  the  Poetic  Architecture 
shall  arise — that  architecture  which  shall  speak  with  clearness, 
with  eloquence,  and  with  warmth  of  the  fulness,  the  completeness 
of  man's  intercourse  with  Nature  and  with  his  fellow-men."  (Pp. 
12,  13.) 

The  completion  of  a  personalized  rhythmic  architecture, 
the  attainment  in  structure  of  what  Wagner  has  done  in 
music  and  Whitman  in  poetry,  Mr.  Sullivan  reserves  for 
the  builders  of  his  native  land. 

The  same  freedom  characterizes  the  American  use  of 
traditional  forms.  By  means  of  association  democracy 
must  realize  its  connection  with  a  historic  past.  Innumer- 
able memories  cling  to  and  linger  around  a  Grecian 
column,  a  Roman  arch,  a  Gothic  spire.  These  forms  serve 
as  organs  of  recollection;  reminding  democracy  of  its 
historical  attachments.  In  buildings  designed  in  part  for 
display, — capitals,  churches,  libraries,  museums,  and  other 
edifices  of  a  public  character, — artistic  and  purely  archi- 
tectural conditions  meet  the  maker;  and  the  forms  and 


DEMOCRATIC  AKT  33 

proportions  sanctioned  by  historical  experience  may  be 
properly  employed. 

When  traditions  are  used  as  servants  and  not  as  mas- 
ters, when  they  are  permitted  to  suggest  and  not  allowed 
to  command,  the  architecture  resulting  from  such  combin- 
ation of  tradition  and  free  creation  may  still  be  classed 
as  democratic.  In  cases  where  a  style  was  adopted  arbi- 
trarily, and  rigidly  applied,  as  often  by  Bullfinch  and  the 
earlier  architects,  the  freedom  of  creation  had  no  part  in 
it ;  a  dead  past  had  been  continued  into  the  living  present ; 
the  artist  was  a  slave  to  tradition  and  not  a  freeman.  But 
the  Italianism  of  the  Boston  Public  Library,  the  Roman- 
esque features  of  Trinity  Church,  Boston,  the  Florentine 
traditions  in  the  Capitol  at  Washington,  the  Gothicism 
of  the  halls  of  the  University  of  Chicago,  the  classicism 
of  the  World's  Fair  buildings,  serve  their  proper  and  pro- 
portionate function  by  perpetuating  historic  experience 
and  by  displaying  cultural  association,  while  they  leave 
the  buildings  free  to  modern  and  American  uses. 

Of  what  a  free  adaptation  of  traditional  styles  may  ac- 
complish, to  the  end  of  forming  an  architecture  whicK 
is  yet  modern  and  almost  worth  the  name  of  an  original 
American  style,  the  work  of  Henry  Richardson  furnishes 
an  illustration.  Mr.  Richardson's  characteristic  produc- 
tions are  the  Trinity  Church  at  Boston  and  the  Wynn 
Memorial  Library.  Freely  employing  an  ancient  mode 
Richardson  was  bold  to  carry  tradition  forward  in  the 
direction  of  national  and  personal  aspirations.  He  pro- 
duced a  style  simple,  intellectual,  and  massive,  one  in 
perfect  harmony  with  the  virile,  serious  civilization  of  the 
Puritan.  More  significant,  too,  were  certain  buildings 
in  the  World's  Fair  group  at  Chicago.  For  the  group 


34  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

as  a  whole  the  traditional  classic  style  was  adopted, — 
probably  from  fear  and  distrust, — and  to  this  rigid  form 
every  architect  was  required  to  restrain  his  exuberance 
and  trim  his  fancy.  For  the  purposes  of  a  Fair  the  classic 
style  is  altogether  irrational.  A  Fair  gives  occasion  for  a 
holiday ;  it  is  lyric  in  its  motive  and  suggestiveness,  and 
fancy  and  individual  creativeness  come  rightly  into  play  in 
the  builders.  At  Chicago  the  rigidity  of  the  style  was 
corrected  by  the  environment,  the  bright  skies  and  gleam- 
ing lake.  It  was  transcended  by  the  free  use  of  ornamen- 
tation and  imposing  sculpture  groups.  Its  limitations 
were  actually  overcome  in  Sullivan's  Transportation 
Building  and  Cobb's  Fisheries  Building,  built  of  honest 
staff  with  no  pretence  of  marble  and  genuinely  plastic. 
Both  had  the  individual  touch;  the  Fisheries  Building, 
with  its  stucco  of  frogs,  fishes  and  snakes,  being  the  one 
attempt  at  humor  among  buildings  dedicated  to  a  holiday. 
Handling  equally  free  while  under  the  same  restrictions 
of  style  was  made  by  D.  H.  Perkins  in  a  building  de- 
voted to  machinery  and  electricity  at  the  Omaha  exposi- 
tion. His  arrangement  of  this  was  suggested  by  the  use 
of  the  building  and  with  wires  and  lamps,  rods  and  cog- 
wheels he  made  a  plastic  design,  crowning  the  whole  with 
a  superb  group  of  five  driven  lions,  symbolizing  the  mas- 
tery by  man  of  the  physical  forces  of  nature.  I  would 
wish  that  that  mastery  could  be  carried  into  other  ma- 
terials. 

III. 

I  have  used  the  history  of  architecture  to  illustrate 
the  variety  of  form  that  follows  the  popularization  of 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  35 

art.  The  other  arts  may  be  briefly  referred  to,  in  order 
to  give  examples  of  the  comprehensiveness  of  subject- 
matter  resulting  from  the  deification  of  nature  and  man. 

The  history  of  music,  from  Bach  to  Wagner,  presents 
the  features  of  emancipation  with  respect  to  form,  and 
also  the  extension  of  the  scope  of  music  to  the  inclusion  of 
poetical  concepts. 

Berlioz,  Schubert,  Schumann,  Liszt  and  Wagner  repre- 
sent the  contest  between  the  classical  and  the  romantic, 
the  effort,  that  is,  to  enlarge  the  domain  of  music  by 
including  the  theme  and  method  of  poetry  and  scenic  art. 
Two  of  these  musicians,  Berlioz  and  Wagner,  were 
active  revolutionists  in  the  political  as  well  as  the  musical 
world.  Berlioz  won  his  first  musical  victory  by  a  cantata 
written  while  the  bullets  of  revolution  were  rattling  round 
his  window  and  later  on  in  the  barricade  wielded  his 
weapons  with  the  rest  of  the  Parisian  mob,  while  Wag- 
ner was  banished  from  Saxony  as  a  "politically-dangerous 
individual"  and  was  known  as  an  exponent  of  anarchy. 
Of  very  necessity  their  art  was  expansive.  Berlioz  de- 
clared his  purpose  was  not  to  subvert  any  of  the  constitu- 
ent elements  of  art,  but  to  add  to  their  number.  Liszt 
invented  modes  elastic  enough  to  -reproduce  poetical  con- 
cepts. The  tendency  was  toward  expressiveness.  The 
significance  of  Wagner,  who  may  be  taken  as  the  repre- 
sentative democrat  in  music,  consists  in  his  effort  to  re- 
store the  relations  between  life  and  art — first,  by  forming 
a  drama  which  should  be  all-inclusive,  expressing  the 
vast  issues  and  complex  relations  of  modern  life ;  and, 
second,  by  composing  music  which  is  indifferent  to  the 
rules  of  the  symphony,  but  which  is  dramatic  and  realistic 


THE  CHANGING  ORDER 


in  motive  and  fully  apprehensible  by  personality  and  the 
poetic  judgment. 

Such  a  composer,  being  independent,  is  limited  in  his 
display  only  by  the  bounds  which  define  the  ideas  he 
seeks  to  embody. 


IV. 


Painting  has  had  a  similar  development;  its  history 
being  marked  by  a  growing  individualization  of  form  and 
an  increasing  inclusiveness  of  theme.  The  disabilities 
imposed  by  the  mediaeval  church  relating  to  sacred  theme 
have  long  since  been  overcome,  on  the  one  hand  by  the 
growth  of  religious  skepticism,  which  resulted  in  a  gener- 
al secularization  of  life,  and  on  the  other  hand  by  increase 
in  scientific  knowledge,  which  has  cast  out  fear  and 
penalty,  and  filled  the  void  fixed  by  romantic  theology  be- 
tween man  and  nature  with  infinite  and  lovely  forms  of 
life.  The  romantic  movement,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  freed  the  painter  from  the  rules  and 
pedantries  of  the  academy,  which  had  been  no  less  re- 
strictive than  the  church.  The  "Men  of  1830"  stood  for 
sincerity  and  the  personal  view  in  confronting  nature. 
Jean  Francois  Millet  carried  forward  the  movement  o\ 
1830  by  adding  to  the  interest  of  landscape  the  inspira- 
tion of  humanity,  and  avowed  that  a  peasant  was  as 
worthy  as  a  king  for  portraiture.  He  broke  from  th? 
slavery  of  conventional  art,  and  put  freely  upon  canvas 
the  actual  earth-born  man  and  woman,  rude  in  their 
outline,  but  vigorous  in  their  action,  and  who  face  cour- 
ageously their  destiny  on  the  laborious  earth.  "Beauty," 
said  Millet,  "is  the  fit,  the  appropriate,  the  serviceable 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  37 

character  well  rendered,  an  idea  well  wrought  out  with 
largeness  and  simplicity." 

Impressionism,  the  latest  of  the  emancipatory  modes, 
asserts  the  verity  of  the  personal  view  and  even  though 
this  method  has  been  carried  to  extremes  and  the  painter 
rioted  in  the  excesses  of  egotism,  the  effects  which  seem 
oftentimes  distorted  are  still  significant  as  an  outcome  of 
the  democratization  of  art. 


V. 


The  popular  art  of  the  present  day  is  literature  chiefly 
in  the  forms  of  essay  and  fiction  and  certain  kinds  of 
poetry.  The  romantic  movement  long  ago  delivered  liter- 
ature from  bondage  to  a  special  measure  or  class  of  sub- 
jects. Any  man  of  letters  may  avail  himself  of  the 
full  freedom  of  the  modern  world.  If,  like  Shelley,  he 
has  a  passion  for  reforming  the  world,  his  verses  may  not 
only  be  expressive  of  personality  but  may  seek  also  to 
inculcate  the  ideals  that  inform  the  present  and  lead  for- 
ward the  future.  The  close  association  of  poetry  with 
the  regnant  ideas  and  dominating  tendencies  of  the  mod- 
ern render  its  history  particularly  serviceable  to  illustrate 
the  most  important  phase  of  the  democratic  movement  in 
art,  the  enlargement  of  subject  and  especially  the  inclusion 
of  the  people  in  the  guise  of  the  "average  man,"  about 
whom  more  and  more  the  ideals  and  sympathies  of  men 
are  gathering.  Says  Edward  Carpenter: 

"There  was  a  time  when  the  sympathies  and  the 
ideals  of  men  gathered  round  other  figures ; 

When  the  crowned  king,  or  the  priests  in  procession, 
or  the  knight  errant,  or  the  man  of  letters  in 


38  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

his  study,  were  the  imaginative  forms  to  which 
men  clung; 

But  now  before  the  easy  homely  garb  and  appearance 
of  this  man  as  he  sweeps  past  in  the  evening 
all  these  others  fade  and  grow  dim.     They 
come  back  after  all  and  cling  to  him." 
And  this  is  one  of  the  slowly  unfolding  meanings  of 
democracy. 

It  may  not  be  commonly  appreciated  how  thoroughly 
modern  English  poetry  is  permeated  by  political  and  social 
ideals.  Byron  and  Shelley  were  in  open  rebellion  against 
aristocratic  usage  and  were  even  anarchic  in  their  passion 
to  destroy  the  fabric  of  civilization.  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth  reflect  in  their  poetry  the  enthusiasm  for 
liberty  that  led  to  the  conception  of  a  Pantisocracy  in  the 
Western  world.  Swinburne  has  long  been  a  fervid  singer 
of  odes  to  freedom  and  is  known  not  to  be  averse  to 
political  revolution.  William  Morris  during  his  last  years 
turned  all  his  poetic  genius  to  the  establishment  of  positive 
socialism.  The  cry  of  Armenia  was  heard  in  England 
most  clearly  by  a  poet,  William  Watson,  whose  words  in 
denunciation  of  the  Turk  who  destroyed  and  in  scorn  of 
his  own  people  who  permitted  the  ruin,  seem  as  if  they 
must  burn  the  page  upon  which  they  are  written.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling  is  an  embodiment  of  English  imperialism. 
A  poet  like  Browning  while  not  political  in  intent  ranges 
the  world  for  his  subject  like  a  democrat  and  enunci- 
ates ideas  that  may  destroy  or  shape  social  institutions. 
Even  Tennyson,  aristocrat  as  he  is  at  heart,  must  admit 
that  "kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets  and  simple 
faith  than  Norman  blood,"  reversing  thus  the  standards 
of  feudalism.  On  the  part  of  America,  Emerson,  though 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  39 

he  did  not  go  to  the  war  to  free  the  slaves  sent  forward 
ten  thousand  men  and  liberated  from  the  prison-house 
of  mind  the  thought  out  of  which  the  union  of  the  states 
was  formed.  The  New  England  poets  cried  out  against 
the  wrong  of  slavery  and  loyally  held  up  the  hands  of 
Lincoln  in  the  war  for  union.  Lowell  and  Whitman 
adopted  democracy  as  a  positive  philosophy  and 
from  this  point  of  view  gave  utterance  to  the  loftiest 
ideals.  In  poetry,  if  anywhere,  will  be  found  the  history 
of  the  theory  of  man. 

The  contrast  of  the  present  with  the  past  in  respect 
to  the  position  of  the  average  man  is  most  striking  and 
illustrative.  By  the  Greek  poets  the  heroic  few  were 
honored:  of  the  thousands  who  sailed  the  Aegean  with 
Agamemnon  only  a  few  figures  stand  out  from  the 
groups  of  the  Myrmidons.  Upon  the  Greek  stage  gods 
mingled  with  men  to  dignify  the  hero  and  the  deed. 
Euripides,  for  the  first  time,  introduced  touches  of  realism 
but  his  innovations  had  no  chance  of  being  established 
and  were  not  followed  up  until  long  afterwards  in  another 
land.  Throughout  the  Middle  Ages  the  hero  continued 
to  be  the  object  of  poetic  celebration.  The  praise  of 
Charlemagne  and  his  peers  was  sung  throughout  Europe. 
Knightly  adventure  formed  the  theme  of  the  novel.  Cer- 
vantes for  the  first  time  intermingled  with  the  romance 
of  nobility  various  phases  of  popular  life.  The  popular 
voice  appears  also  for  a  time  in  England  in  the  series  of 
ballads  which  celebrated  the  deeds  of  Robin  Hood  and 
his  merry  men  in  Sherwood  forest.  These  free  men  of 
the  woods  stood  for  the  rights  of  the  common  people 
against  the  exaction  of  the  rich  and  noble  born  and  the 
report  of  their  adventures  formed  a  genuine  epic  of  revolt. 


40  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Still  much  of  Robin  Hood's  popularity  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  mad-cap  prince,  reputed  Earl  of 
Huntingdon.  The  democratic  ideals  hinted  at  by  Eurip- 
ides did  not  in  reality  emerge  before  Chaucer.  It  is 
the  distinction  of  Chaucer  to  have  created  in  his  Canter- 
bury Tales  characters  of  flesh  and  blood  with  touches  of 
local  color,  not  forgetting  the  miller  or  the  ploughman 
or  their  environment  of  mill  and  field.  The  company  that 
rode  to  Becket's  shrine  knew  no  great  separation  in 
class,  made  uniform  perhaps  by  the  levelling  tendency  of 
the  Catholic  creed.  Shakespeare,  it  must  be  confessed,  is 
generally  aristocratic.  Not  once  did  the  so-called  "Lord  of 
all  the  passions"  give  a  fate  to  a  common  man  or  woman. 
Fates  were  for  kings  and  nobles  to  feed  their  vanity. 
Sometimes  wisdom  is  spoken  by  fools  but  fools  were  men 
of  privilege  in  the  court  and  in  any  case  perform  a  second- 
ary part  in  the  drama,  playing  buffoonery  to  relieve  the 
tragedy  of  the  great  Spencer  ignored  the  common- 
place, idealized  the  shepherds  of  the  hill,  wrote  to  inform 
the  lives  of  the  ladies  at  the  court  of  the  queen  and  to 
fashion  a  "gentleman  of  noble  person  in  virtuous,  brave 
and  gentle  discipline."  Still  there  is  in  the  sixteenth 
century  in  chap  book  and  picaresque  novel  a  distinctive 
realism  and  on  the  stage  a  tendency  toward  the  humani- 
zation  of  art.  The  moral  plays  and  interludes  furnish  other 
elements  of  a  popular  character.  This  tendency,  however, 
went  no  further  than  the  stage  in  England.  The  Latin 
supremacy  entered  by  way  of  the  universities  and  through 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  there  was  no 
marked  democratic  manifestation.  From  the  revolt  of 
1688  there  ran  on  underground,  as  it  were,  the  popular 
social  movement  but  it  had  few  superficial  evidences  until 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  41 

the  present  century.  English  art  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury was  decidedly  aristocratic.  The  popular  writers  ig- 
nore the  populace  and  celebrate  the  great.  The  dictator 
of  this  class,  the  absolute  emperor  of  their  literary  lace 
and  ruffles — as  J.  W.  Hales  puts  it — was  the  poet  Pope. 
But  some  pricks  of  conscience  begin  now  to  disturb 
the  century's  complacency.  In  one  passage  Pope  wonders 
whether  it  is  quite  right  that  the  great  should  monopolize 
the  poet: 

"Yet  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  engross  ? 
Rise,  honest  muse,  and  sing  the  Man  of  Ross." 

That  a  plain  man,  a  man  without  a  title,  could  be 
thought  worthy  of  record  indicates  that  something  of 
the  century's  exclusiveness  is  disappearing.  Richardson 
in  "Pamela,"  published  in  1740,  recognized  the  new  order 
by  adopting  a  servant  girl  for  a  heroine  but  he  ac- 
knowledged the  old  order  by  marrying  her  to  the  worth- 
less lord  and  making  her  Lady  Pamela.  In  Cowper,  sym- 
pathies that  comprehend  the  poor  and  lowly  begin  to 
abound ;  a  lowly  man  himself,  he  loved  the  commonplace 
and  took  pleasure  in  his  garden  and  his  rabbits  and  found 
it  in  his  heart  to  justify  the  unlovely  cucumber  vine.  It 
was  left,  however,  to  the  genius  of  a  ploughman,  Robert 
Burns,  to  discover  and  open  forever  to  fOetic  use  the 
thought  and  emotion  contained  in  the  world  of  the  com- 
mon. The  service  of  Burns  in  this  respect  can  never  be 
overestimated.  The  cunning  genius  of  poetry  might 
still  lie  unexposed  in  the  laborer's  cottage  and  in  the 
open  sun-purified  field  had  he  not  possessed  the  insight  to 
detect  and  the  genius  to  exploit  the  dignity  of  the  simple, 
the  common,  the  sublime.  He  has  the  immortal  distinc- 
tion of  being  the  first  real  democrat  in  letters.  The  new 


42  TOE  CHANGING  ORDER 

spirit  is  just  in  evidence  in  Walter  Scott,  who,  although  he 
preferred  the  aristocracy  and  attempted  at  Abbotsford  to 
restore  the  glitter  and  gold  of  a  feudal  past  and  in  his 
writings  to  set  the  world  in  love  with  dreams  and  phan- 
toms, was  yet  wide  and  generous  in  his  sympathies.  It 
is  said  of  him  that  he  spoke  to  every  man  as  if  he  were 
his  blood  relation. 

In  the  great  era  of  the  French  Revolution  the  spirit 
of  brotherhood  passed  permanently  into  literature.  The 
era  of  Humanity  dawned  with  the  ruin  of  a  social  aristoc- 
racy. The  English  revolutionary  poets  all  shared  in  the 
passion  for  the  restoration  of  freedom :  Byron  in  a  moody 
fiery  spirit  of  tumult  and  destruction,  Keats  in  a  gentle 
mood  of  longing,  Shelley  with  a  passion  for  the  domina- 
tion of  Love.  More  than  any  other  man  Wordsworth, 
perhaps,  taught  the  world  the  duty  of  catholic  affection. 
"O,  gentle  reader,"  he  exhorted,  "you  will  find  a  tale  in 
everything."  It  was  his  great  service  to  display  the 
hitherto  unrecognized  attractions  of  the  commonest  cir- 
cumstances, the  most  ignoble  things,  the  most  ordinary 
persons. 

Wordsworth  presents  the  type  of  poetic  feeling  preva- 
lent in  an  era  of  social  revolution.  By  a  further  demo- 
cratic advance  indicated  by  the  rise  of  industrialism  which 
tends  always  to  substitute  an  industrial  for  a  political  co- 
partnership, an  organization  of  men  for  a  government  of 
laws,  the  people,  as  the  real  members  of  such  an  organic 
community,  have  gained  a  new  importance  and  furnished 
poetry  with  a  significant  theme  and  subject — the  theme  of 
labor,  the  heroic  character  of  the  average  man.  The 
writings  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  George  Eliot,  Ruskin, 
Carlyle,  Browning  and  Morris  worthily  interpret  the  age 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  43 

in  its  enthusiasm  for  humanity.  There  is  fine  passion 
glowing  in  Carlyle's  words  concerning  the  "toilworn 
craftsman  that  conquers  the  earth  and  makes  her  man's" : 
"Venerable  to  me  is  the  hard  hand,  crooked,  coarse; 
wherein,  notwithstanding,  lies  a  cunning  virtue,  inde- 
feasibly  royal,  as  of  the  sceptre  of  this  planet.  Ven- 
erable, too,  is  the  rugged  face,  all  weather  tanned,  with  its 
rude  intelligence ;  for  it  is  the  face  of  a  man  living  man- 
like. O!  but  the  more  venerable  for  thy  rudeness,  and 
even  because  we  must  pity  as  well  as  love  thee;  hardly 
entreated  brother!  For  us  was  thy  back  so  bent,  for  us 
were  thy  straight  limbs  and  fingers  so  deformed;  thou 
wert  our  conscript,  on  whom  the  lot  fell,  and  fighting  our 
battles  wert  so  marred.  For  in  thee  lay  a  God-created 
form,  but  it  was  not  to  be  unfolded;  encrusted  must  it 
stand,  with  the  thick  adhesions  and  defacements  of  la- 
bour; and  thy  body,  like  thy  soul,  was  not  to  know  free- 
dom. Yet  toil  on,  toil  on;  thou  art  in  thy  duty,  be  out 
of  it  who  may ;  thou  toilest  for  the  altogether  indispens- 
able, for  daily  bread." 

Carlyle  was  the  prophet  of  toil,  but  not  the  craftsman's 
intimate.  The  spirit  of  industrial  association  becomes 
supreme,  for  the  first  time,  in  contemporary  fiction.  In 
the  novels  of  George  Eliot  there  are  notable  and  character- 
istic pictures  of  English  social  life.  The  district  around 
Nuneaton  where  George  Eliot  lived  for  many  years  is 
just  on  the  edge  of  the  section  where  industrialism  centers. 
As  the  traveler  passes  northward  from  London,  through 
the  beautiful  feudal  county  of  Warwickshire,  the  county 
of  regal  parks  and  immemorial  elms  and  lordly  manor 
houses,  the  land  of  chivalric  Shakespeare,  he  enters  by 
slow  stages  a  region  of  more  lowly  mien  and  repellent 


44  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

features — the  Great  Black  country,  a  country  of  mines 
and  manufacturies,  so  black  and  repulsive  that  the  travel- 
er looks  back  with  regret  at  the  stately  forms  of  nobles 
fading  at  the  threshold  of  the  industrial  region.  From 
glowing  furnaces  rise  a  thousand  smoke-formed  pillars 
which  support  in  air  a  vast  and  shifting  dome  of  vapors. 
The  sun  and  the  blue  sky  are  obscured.  The  land,  the 
houses,  the  men  are  blackened  and  seem  stricken  with 
disease.  Yet  these  are  the  scenes  and  faces,  here  the 
ideas  working,  which  George  Eliot  at  Nuneaton  and 
the  Brontes  farther  north  at  Haworth,  recognizing  their 
real  grandeur,  made  forever  interesting.  Thus  did  Eliot 
plead : 

"Paint  us  an  angel  if  you  can,  with  a  floating  violet 
robe,  and  a  face  paled  by  the  celestial  light ;  paint  us  yet 
oftener  a  Madonna,  turning  her  mild  face  upward  and 
opening  her  arms  to  welcome  the  divine  glory ;  but  do 
not  impose  on  us  any  of  the  aesthetic  rules  which  shall 
banish  from  the  regions  of  art  these  old  women,  scraping 
carrots  with  their  work-worn  hands,  these  heavy  clowns 
taking  holiday  in  a  dingy  pothouse,  these  rounded  backs 
and  stupid  weather-beaten  faces  that  have  bent  over  the 
spade  and  done  the  rough  work  of  the  world — these 
homes  with  their  tin  pans,  their  brown  pitchers,  their 
rough  curs,  and  their  clusters  of  onions." 

Dickens  understood  the  common  people  even  better. 
The  Chimes,  Bleak  House,  and  Hard  Times  exhibit  his 
popular  sympathies  that  included  the  lowest  and  even  the 
criminal  classes.  Judging  Dickens  by  the  standards  of 
the  twentieth  century,  Dr.  Leet  in  Looking  Backward 
said :  "He  overtops  all  the  writers  of  his  age,  not  because 
his  literary  genius  was  highest,  but  because  his  great  heart 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  45 

beat  for  the  poor,  because  he  made  the  cause  of  the 
victims  of  society  his  own,  and  devoted  his  pen  to  expos- 
ing its  cruelties  and  shams."  Thackeray  took  for  his  part 
in  the  democratic  movement  the  exposition  of  the  mean- 
ness and  selfishness  abounding  in  the  circles  of  wealth  and 
rank.  Thackeray's  return  to  reality,  from  that  which  is 
external  to  that  which  is  vital  and  attached  to  character, 
constitutes  his  contribution  to  the  modern.  Later  English 
fiction  is  not  less  marked  in  its  absolute  inclusiveness. 
John  Watson  gives  us  the  reason  for  the  success  of  his 
short  stories  that  "the  people  liked  to  read  about  the 
doings  and  sayings  of  the  plain,  unsophisticated,  every- 
day people,  who  were  still  close  enough  to  the  heart  of 
nature  to  keep  something  of  the  freshness  and  original- 
ity, rather  than  to  hear  about  the  introspective  question- 
ings and  narrow  discussions  of  the  over-cultivated  mem- 
bers of  a  coterie." 

In  other  departments  of  modern  English  literature,  the 
democratic  subject-matter  is  hardly  less  prominent  than 
in  fiction.  The  poets  of  the  century  with  but  few  ex- 
ceptions are  involved  in  the  movement  in  some  degree 
and  the  spirit  of  brotherhood  colors  largely  the  writings 
of  the  leading  essayists.  Browning  is  the  typical  English 
democrat,  both  in  his  comprehensive  philosophy  of  love, 
which  principle  is  the  universal  solvent  of  human  experi- 
ence, and  in  his  actual  poetic  treatment  of  life  and  char- 
acter in  which  nothing  is  excluded  that  is  vital  and  dy- 
namic. I  do  not  mean  that  Browning  touches  the  com- 
mon people  as  Burns,  but  that  his  works  contain  demo- 
cratic philosophy  and  exhibit  the  democratic  method. 
He  has  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation,  searched  the 
world  for  persons  who  had  been  lost  or  forgotten  or 


46  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

misunderstood,  the  Sordellos,  Pompilias,  Fifines,  Para- 
celsuses,  Grammarians,  pointed  out  that  love  is  under- 
lying all  of  these,  and  for  each  personality  found  an  in- 
dividual voice  and  style. 

In  America  where  democracy  is  so  largely  industrial 
and  conditioned  by  free  labor  it  is  natural  to  expect  a 
literature  when  most  native  most  replete  with  the  mode 
of  democracy.  Democracy  with  us  is  not  a  mere  literary 
theme  but  is  our  life,  our  habit  of  thought,  the  condition 
from  which  we  take  departure  in  action.  Emerson, 
Thoreau,  Lowell,  and  Whitman  are  American  products, 
impossible  in  any  other  than  modern  soil.  Their  whole 
work  takes  meaning  from  the  social  environment,  as  they 
are  related  to  the  democratic  age.  Emerson  and  Thoreau 
each  in  his  own  way  displayed  the  theory  of  the  inde- 
pendent self-centered  man.  Lowell  with  scholastic  in- 
sight and  precision  declared  the  meaning  of  democracy 
as  the  life  that  is  separate,  self-poised  and  sole  as  stars, 
yet  linked  by  love,  made  one  as  light.  Whitman,  uniting 
in  his  personality  the  results  of  historical  process,  pre- 
sents himself  as  a  typical,  complete  personality,  the  first 
unconditioned  absolutely  sovereign,  average  man.  The 
theme  of  literature  in  America,  taken  in  its  entirety,  re- 
volves about  the  individualized  personality,  which  is  seen 
not  to  be  simple  but  to  have  relations  and  identities  with 
every  other  personality,  with  nature  and  the  Divine  Spirit. 
The  sublimation  of  the  thought  of  identity  is  expressed 
in  Whitman's  lines : 

"Ah,  little  recks  the  laborer 

How  near  his  work  is  holding  him  to  God, 
The  loving  laborer  through  space  and  time." 

In  this  essay  I  have  quoted  several  times  from  Whit- 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  4 

man.  If  one  poet  alone  is  sought  who  is  fully  representa- 
tive of  humanity,  of  democracy,  the  modern  and  the  New 
World,  whose  works  exhibit  in  every  aspect  the  features 
of  democratic  art,  its  sincerity,  universality,  and  idealistic 
tendency,  Whitman  certainly  would  be  chosen.  Indeed, 
without  the  illustration  of  Whitman's  poems  which  indi- 
cate the  direction  of  the  wind  of  the  human  spirit  more 
truly  than  any  other  collection  of  recent  production  this 
essay  could  hardly  have  been  written.  "Through  me," 
the  poet  affirms,  "the  afflatus  surging  and  surging, 
through  me  the  current  and  index."  With  perfect  free- 
dom he  ignored  the  conventionalism  of  form  and  consti- 
tuted a  line  and  rhythm  that  would  most  adequately  convey 
his  content.  For  subjects  he  ranged  the  whole  subject- 
ive and  objective  world,  saying  to  every  person  or  thing: 
"Not  till  the  sun  excludes  you  do  I  exclude  you."  tie 
said,  "I  have  made  my  poetry  out  of  actual,  practical  life, 
such  as  is  common  to  every  man  or  woman,  so  that  all 
have  an  equal  share  in  it.  The  old  poets  went  on  the 
assumption  that  there  was  a  selection  needed.  I  make 
little  or  no  selection,  put  in  common  things,  tools,  trades, 
all  that  can  happen  or  belong  to  mechanics,  farmers,  or 
the  practical  community.  I  have  not  put  in  the  language 
of  politics  but  I  have  put  in  its  spirit ;  and  in  science,  by 
intention,  at  least,  the  most  advanced  points  are  perpetual- 
ly recognized  and  allowed  for."  His  ideals  include  also 
the  most  advanced  philosophy  and  religious  opinions. 
In  every  way  he  is  the  most  conspicuous  artistic  identity 
of  the  age.  Beyond  all  others  he  is  the  poet  of  joy. 
His  exultation  mounts  high  and  soars  wide.  His  faith 
is  so  absolute,  his  confidence  in  the  goodwill  of  the 
World-Spirit  and  of  each  individual  soul  so  great,  that 


48  THE  CHANGING  OUDER 

no  imperfection  in  the  world  order,  no  evil  in  the  social 
system,  no  meanness  in  the  individual,  is  sufficient  to 
check  the  play  of  an  optimism  that  is  all  inclusive  and 
boundless  as  light.  To  the  future  and  to  the  Invisible 
World  he  dedicated  his  poems. 


VI. 


As  tb°  stream  of  tendency  toward  democracy  cannot  be 
turned  back  nor  permanently  checked,  it  must  be  con- 
cluded that  along  the  lines  of  freedom  art  will  continue  to 
advance  until  every  subject  shall  be  included,  and  every 
thought  shall  find  its  appropriate  form. 

It  is  likely  that  there  are  those  who  are  not  in  sympathy 
with  these  tendencies,  who  resent  the  destruction  of  an- 
cient idols,  and  who  maintain  that  these  innovations  in- 
dicate the  decline  and  decay  of  art.  The  fear  of  timid 
souls  is  well  expressed  by  Lowell  in  "The  Cathedral." 

"Lo,  where  his  coming  looms, 
Of  Earth's  anarchic  children  latest  born, 
Democracy,  a  Titan  who  hath  learned 
To  laugh  at  Jove's  old  fashioned  thunderbolts — 
Could  he  not  also  forge  them,  if  he  would? 
He,  better  skilled,  with  solvents  merciless, 
Loosened  in  air  and  borne  on  every  wind, 
Saps  unperceived:   the  calm  Olympian  height 
Of  ancient  order  feels  its  bases  yield, 
And  pale  gods  glance  for  help  to  gods  as  pale. 
What  will  be  left  of  good  or  worshipful, 
Of  spiritual  secrets,  mysteries, 
Of  fair  religion's  guarded  heritage, 
Heirlooms  of  soul,  passed  downward  unprofaned 
From  eldest  Ind?     This  Western  giant  coarse, 
Scorning  refinements  which  he  lacks  himself, 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  49 

Loves  not  nor  heeds  the  ancestral  hierarchies, 

Each  rank  dependent  on  the  next  above 

In  orderly  gradation  fixed  as  fate. 

King  by  mere  manhood,  nor  allowing  aught 

Of  holier  unction  than  the  sweat  of  toil; 

In  his  own  strength  sufficient;  called  to  solve, 

On  the  rough  edges  of  society, 

Problems  long  sacred  to  the  choicer  few 

And  improvise  what  elsewhere  men  receive 

As  gifts  of  deity;  tough  foundling  reared 

Where  every  man's  his  own  Melchisedek, 

How  make  him  reverent  of  a  King  of  kings? 

Or  Judge  self-made,  executor  of  laws 

By  him  not  first  discussed  and  voted  on? 

For  him  no  tree  of  knowledge  is  forbid, 

Or  sweeter  if  forbid.     How  save  the  ark 

Or  holy  of  holies,  unprofaned  a  day 

From  his  unscrupulous  curiosity 

That  handles  everything  as  if  to  buy, 

Tossing  aside  what  fabrics  delicate 

Suit  not  the  rough-and-tumble  of  his  ways? 

What  hope  for  those  fine-nerved  humanities 

That  made  earth  gracious  once  with  gentler  arts, 

Now  the  rude  hands  have  caught  the  trick  of  thought 

And  claim  an  equal  suffrage  with  the  brain?" 
The  lament  is  to  be  expected.  The  heading  of  one  of 
the  chapters  of  "The  Dream  of  John  Ball"  is  the  common- 
place truth:  "Hard  it  is  for  the  Old  World  to  see  the 
New."  But  the  changes  I  have  described  cannot  well 
be  avoided.  Metamorphosis  is  the  law  of  all  living  things. 
This  is  not  a  matter  of  what  an  artistic  or  academic  class 
wants.  It  is  what  the  people  can  be  prevailed  upon  to 
give.  I  do  not  want  an  art  of  scholars,  but  one  of  men. 
Art  must  descend  from  academic  technicalities  and  be- 
come commonplace:  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Schreiber,  "it 
must  be  reinstated  as  a  natural  exponent  of  our  common 


30  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

culture."  Art  must  be  reclaimed  for  men,  the  masses. 
Otherwise  it  will  become  abnormal,  degenerate  into  petti- 
ness, and  forsake  the  walks  of  common  truth.  Shame  to 
us  that  stigma  should  attach  to  work  that  is  close  to 
the  universal  heart  and  mind,  and  praise  be  accorded  to 
what  is  rare  and  exotic  and  refined.  Beauty  is  wherever 
light  is — the  most  common  thing  in  the  universe.  Rus- 
kin  declined  to  interest  himself  in  America  because  there 
were  no  castles  here,  nor  ruins — is  beauty  limited  to  where 
castles  are  ?  Castles,  me  thinks,  were  built  by  men.  Time, 
that  wrought  the  present  ruin  of  past  buildings,  will 
make  future  ruins  of  present  buildings.  But  who  wants 
an  art  based  upon  ruins?  Who  will  consent  to  be  ruled 
by  a  dead  hand  ?  Is  it  not  better  to  free  the  creative  ener- 
gies in  the  present?  "Faith  and  wonder  and  the  primal 
earth,"  said  Lowell,  "are  born  into  the  world  with  every 
child." 

To  my  mind,  the  popularization  of  art — the  rendering 
of  form  and  color  and  theme  characteristic  and  common- 
place— marks  a  real  advance.  I  will  not  admit  for  a 
moment  that  the  triumph  of  democracy  means  the  wane 
of  art.  Indeed,  before  the  modern  artist  lies  a  more  ar- 
duous task  than  any  yet  attempted.  In  approaching  the 
people  with  sympathetic  knowledge  the  danger  is  not  that 
the  artist's  standards  will  be  abased,  but  rather  that  his 
thought  and  skill  will  not  be  sufficient  to  express  the 
real  dignity  of  the  people.  It  is  not  so  easy  to 
"Give  to  barrows,  traya,  and  pang 
Grace  and  glitter  of  romance." 

My  feeling  is  that  the  opportunities  of  modern  and 
American  art  are  great  and  beyond  compare.  Almost  for 
the  first  time  in  history  the  artist  is  a  freeman.  Obsolete 


DEMOCRATIC  ART  51 

obstructions  are  fully  cleared.  He  is  independent  of  any 
ecclesiastical  or  aristocratic  authority.  He  is  delivered 
from  a  scholastic  tradition  regarding  style  and  subject. 
He  shares  in  the  emancipation  of  the  individual  brought 
about  by  social  movements,  and  in  the  freedom  of  the  intel- 
lect caused  by  modern  science.  He  may  face  the  whole  of 
nature  and  the  whole  of  humanity.  It  is  his  privilege  to 
create  the  styles  adequate  to  a  great  people  and  land. 
It  is  his  opportunity  to  begin  the  epic  of  the  modern 
world,— the  world  as  modernly  known, — the  world  of 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth.  It  is  his  mission  to  open  for 
the  imagination  the  universe  as  scientifically  disclosed. 
It  is  his  fortune  to  be  able  to  set  forth  in  all  its  nobility 
and  grandeur  the  democratic  idea, — the  idea  of  self- 
sovereignty  and  of  sovereign  association,  the  idea  of  a 
life  self-poised  and  sole  as  stars,  yet  one  as  light. 
If  art  falls  short  of  its  present  possibilities,  the  fault  is 
not  with  the  materials:  it  does  not  lie  in  any  want  of 
freedom,  but  rests  rather  with  the  artist  who  lacks  the 
eyes  to  see,  the  mind  to  think,  the  skill  to  compose. 

Yet  again  the  fault  shall  not  be  alone  with  the  artist, 
but  with  the  people :  art  is  the  answer  to  a  need  felt  in  the 
popular  heart.  The  people  create:  they  furnish  life  for 
art's  impulse,  freedom  for  its  atmosphere,  patronage  for 
its  support.  From  them  alone  can  come  the  impulse  that 
shall  hasten  the  production  of  a  genuine  democratic 
art. 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE: 
BROWNING. 

I. 

The  physical  energy  of  the  modern  world  seems  to 
be  expended  in  the  acquirement  of  some  external  gain: 
material  possessions,  comforts  and  conveniences.  At 
the  same  time  the  tendency  of  life,  as  disclosed  in  the 
more  significant  modes  of  art — which  is  life  moulded 
nearer  to  the  heart's  desire — is  in  the  direction  of  the 
esoteric.  While  the  nations  of  the  earth  are  struggling 
to  gain  or  to  retain  markets,  the  art  of  the  day  is  seek- 
ing to  satisfy  some  desire  of  the  heart,  some  longing  of 
the  soul. 

By  an  esoteric  art  I  mean  an  art  whose  visible  forms 
are  determined  not  by  external  but  by  psychic  neces- 
sity. The  art  of  a  Greek  temple  is  exoteric — it  is  an  art 
whose  aesthetic  effects  arise  from  form.  Its  materials 
are  arranged  with  reference  to  external  order.  The 
law  of  visible  proportions  is  inviolable.  Its  bases, 
columns,  entablature  and  roof  have  logical  and  struc- 
tural meaning.  It  is  an  art  that  is  intellectual,  pre- 
cise, and  without  mysticism.  Christianity  released 
an  immense  emotionalism  and  with  the  consequent 
increase  in  mystic  feeling,  the  formal  orders  of  the 
Greek  were  broken  up.  In  the  course  of  the  middle 
ages,  in  the  period  called  Gothic,  there  were  built  over 
the  face  of  Europe,  in  the  lands  where  Christian  ideal- 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       53 

ism  was  nurtured,  structures  that  did  not  arise  from 
the  ground  as  form  but  descended,  as  it  were,  from 
the  heaven  as  idea.  These  majestic  temples  seem  to 
defy  all  structural  laws — they  seem  not  to  rest  upon 
the  ground  so  much  as  hover  over  it — as  if  gravi- 
tation had  been  reversed,  or  as  if  they  were  suspended 
from  some  superior  altitude.  They  are  symbols  of 
idea.  I  see  in  them  not  material  form  or  laws  of  pro- 
portion, but  multiple  ideas.  The  materials  vanish  and 
one  is  face  to  face  with  living  men — with  the  great 
mediaeval  mystics,  whose  eyes  pierced  through  form  to 
psychic  realities.  Mind  unifies  the  structure.  It  is 
genuine  esoteric  art.  Exoteric  art  may  be  described 
as  manipulation  of  materials  to  the  end  of  form ;  eso- 
teric art  as  the  essential  expression  of  the  soul. 

The  proof  of  the  esoteric  tendency  in  art  as  a  whole 
is  discoverable  in  the  phenomena  of  modern  music 
and  poetry.  Architecture  is  more  esoteric  than  at 
first  appears ;  for  when  a  builder  inserts  a  window  into 
a  dwelling  house  according  as  the  house  needs  the 
light  of  a  window  rather  than  as  the  exterior  needs 
a  harmony,  or  when  he  gathers  his  steel  frame  and 
terra  cotta  envelope  about  a  man  in  an  office  instead 
of  bringing  columns  from  Greece  and  proportions  from 
Rome  to  please  the  man  in  the  street,  he  is  employing 
the  esoteric  mode  of  structure.  Such  building  fol- 
lows the  logic  of  function.  Probably,  however,  the 
fullest  freedom  of  man  is  found  in  those  arts  which 
are  farthest  removed  from  use,  the  arts  of  music  and 
poetry. 

The  Tone-Poem,  called  "Thus  Spake  Zarathustra," 
by  Strauss,  is  an  illustration  in  point.  It  is  a  compo- 


54  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

sition  striking  in  its  originality  and  power,  extra- 
ordinarily intricate  in  its  modes,  and  more  compre- 
hensive in  its  scope  than  any  music  that  has  been 
heard  up  to  its  time.  The  significance  of  the  com- 
position resides  in  the  fact  that  a  most  intimate  union 
and  correspondence  exist  in  it  between  tones  and 
soul-states.  It  is  a  music  that  follows  no  external 
necessity  whatever.  Its  effects  are  measured  in  terms 
of  psychology.  Though  freed  from  formal  law  it  is 
yet  bound  by  a  profound  mastery,  the  law  of  psychic 
process.  It  exhibits  with  absolute  fidelity  the  history 
of  a  soul.  It  is  a  pure  form  of  esoteric  music.  Now, 
if  this  composition  stood  alone,  if  the  world  had  not 
been  preparing  to  receive  a  music  of  this  character 
for  over  a  cencury,  it  might  not  signify  a  general  ten- 
dency. But  for  a  century  music  has  been  transferring 
its  center  of  control  from  the  outer  to  the  inner. 
Mozart's  ideal,  for  instance,  was  simple  and  perfectly 
organized  progression,  without  great  passional  force. 
With  Beethoven  the  outer  relations  are  obscured  in 
the  interest  of  greater  soul  expression.  An  entire 
revolution  was  then  wrought  by  Wagner  when  he 
conceived  music  dramatically,  emancipated  it  from 
formal  restrictions,  rendered  it  capable  of  expressing 
the  vast  issues  of  modern  life,  and  offered  music  for- 
ever to  the  free  uses  of  the  soul.  Emboldened  by  his 
example  the  younger  composers  have  continued  to 
enlarge  the  expressive  capacities  of  music  until  today 
it  includes  nearly  the  whole  idealism  of  the  modern 
world. 

The  poets  who  best  represent  the  esoteric  tendencies 
in    literature   are    Whitman    and    Browning.    It   is    a 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       55 

matter  of  no  little  moment  that  two  representative 
English  writers  of  the  nineteenth  century  were  ideal- 
ists. The  peculiarity  of  Whitman's  writings  is  that 
they  can  not  be  understood  with  any  success  if  ap- 
proached from  the  outside.  The  reader  must  be  ab- 
sorbed in  the  thing  contemplated — he  must  become 
the  poet,  look  through  his  eyes,  realize  the  universe 
in  his  way;  "I  act  as  the  tongue  of  you,"  said  Whit- 
man ;  "In  my  poems,  all  concentrates  in,  radiates  from, 
evolves  about  myself.  I  have  but  one  central  figure, 
the  general  human  personality  typified  in  myself. 
Only  I  am  sure  my  book  inevitably  necessitates  that 
its  reader  transpose  him  or  herself  into  that  central 
position  and  become  the  actor,  experiencer,  himself  or 
herself,  of  every  page,  every  aspiration,  every  line." 
Other  books  remain  standing  on  the  outside  of  our 
personality  and  contribute  only  to  our  taste  or  our 
knowledge;  this  book  incorporates  itself  with  the 
reader  and  contributes  pride,  love,  health,  conscious- 
ness. By  some  strange  process  a  man  has  actually 
got  into  a  book  and  hence  the  book  must  be  appre- 
hended for  its  character,  not  for  the  mere  grace  of  its 
manner.  His  writings  derive  from  personality  and  to 
personality  they  return.  To  an  occultist,  a  mystic, 
one  accustomed  to  read  the  symbolism  of  words  and 
forms,  Whitman  presents  no  difficulty.  The  spread 
of  his  influence,  the  recognition  of  his  power,  seems 
to  indicate  the  increasing  idealism  of  the  modern 
mind. 

II. 

Browning  displays  his  esotericism  in  three  ways:  in 


56  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  personalization  of  his  poetry,  in  the  artistic  modes  of 
his  expression,  and  in  the  forms  of  his  philosophy. 

To  personalize  poetry  is  to  inform  it  with  life.  Ob- 
jective art  is  impersonal.  For  its  effects  depend  upon 
skillful  manipulation  of  materials.  The  artist  as  a 
man  remains  concealed.  The  world  is  indifferent  to 
the  authorship  of  Shakespeare's  plays  for  they  are  un- 
informed by  personality.  They  were  written  to  pro- 
duce stage  effects.  They  were  tested  by  their  dra- 
matic outcome:  do  they  play  well?  Is  the  dramatic 
motive  sufficient?  Is  the  dramatic  consequence  re- 
quired? That  the  audience  should  be  informed,  vi- 
talized, transformed,  did  not  enter  into  their  dramatic 
purpose.  While  Shakespeare  was  a  great  artist,  the 
greatest  master  of  strictly  dramatic  motives  that  the 
world  has  ever  known,  he  need  not  have  been  a  great 
personality.  In  esoteric  art  a  great  personality  is 
presupposed.  Greatness  is  an  attribute  that  must  be- 
long to  the  man  before  it  can  enter  into  and  character- 
ize his  work.  Whitman's  writings  rest  absolutely  upon 
the  character  of  the  writer.  In  one  place  he  says  of 
himself  and  his  book: 

"I  have  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals;  I  have  despised  riches; 

I  have  given  alms  to  every  one  that  ask'd,  stood  up  for  the 
stupid  and  crazy,  devoted  my  income  and  labor  to  others, 

Hated  tyrants,  argued  not  concerning  God,  had  patience  and  in- 
dulgence toward  the  people,  taken  off  my  hat  to  nothing 
known  or  unknown, 

Gone  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons  and  with  the 
young,  and  with  the  mothers  of  families, 

Read  these  leaves  to  myself  in  the  open  air,  tried  them  by  trees, 
etars,  rivers, 

Dismiss'd  whatever  insulted  by  own  «oul  or  defiled  my  body, 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       57 

Claim'd  nothing  to  myself  which   I  have  not  carefully  claim'd 

for  others  on  the  same  terms, 
Sped    to    the    camps,    and    comrades    found    and    accepted    from 

every  State, 
(Upon  this  breast  has  many  a  dying  soldier  lean'd  to  breathe 

his  last, 

This  arm,  this  hand,  this  voice,  have  nourish'd,  rais'd,  restored, 
To  life  recalling  many  a  prostrate  form;) 
I  am  willing  to  wait  to  be  understood  by  the  growth  of  the  taste 

of  myself, 
Rejecting  none,  permitting  all." 

By  the  truth  of  this  declaration,  Whitman's  poetry 
rises  or  falls.  His  character  vitalizes  the  lines,  the 
motive  of  the  line  being  to  vitalize  the  reader.  The 
art  forms  have  no  independent  value;  they  exist  sim- 
ply as  a  means  of  conveying  life  to  those  not  having 
life.  Untold  latencies  thrill  in  every  page. 

As  Browning  employs  the  dramatic  method  he  hides 
himself  behind  dramatic  masks  in  some  degree,  but 
nevertheless  the  reader  is  always  conscious  that  his 
poems  move  not  by  dramatic  necessity  so  much  as 
compelled  by  thought,  and  that  behind  the  fictions, 
informing  every  line,  is  the  author,  alert,  unconquer- 
able, wearing  a  hundred  disguises,  contributing 
something  out  of  his  own  abounding  personality, 
something  that  stimulates  and  vivifies  the  reader.  In 
a  passage  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  Browning  out- 
lines the  theory  of  which  the  poem  itself  is  the  ex- 
emplification : 

"I  find  first 

Writ  down  for  very  A  B  C  of  fact, 
'In  the  beginning  God  made  heaven  and  earth'; 
From  which,  no  matter  with  what  lisp,  I  spell 
And  speak  you  out  a  consequence — that  man, 


C8  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Man — as  befits  the  made,  the  inferior  thing — 
Purposed,  since  made,  to  grow,  not  make  in  turn, 
Yet  forced  to  try  and  make,  else  fail  to  grow — 
Formed  to  rise,  reach  at,  if  not  grasp  and  gain 
The  good  beyond  him — which  attempt  is  growth — 
Repeats  God's  process  in  man's  due  degree, 
Attaining  man's  proportionate  result — 
Creates,  no,  but  resuscitates,  perhaps. 
Inalienable,  the  arch-prerogative 
Which  turns  thought,  act — conceives,  expresses  too! 
No  less,  man,  bounded,  yearning  to  be  free, 
May  so  project  his  surplusage  of  soul 
In  search  of  body,  so  add   self  to  self 
By  owning  what  lay  ownerless  before — 
So  find,  so  fill  full,  so  appropriate  forms — 
That,  although  nothing  which  had  never  life 
Shall  get  life  from  him,  be,  not  having  been, 
Yet,  something  dead  may  get  to  live  again, 
Something  with  too  much  life  or  not  enough, 
Which,  either  way  imperfect,  ended  once: 
An  end  whereat  man's  impulse  intervenes. 
Makes  new  beginning,  starts  the  dead  alive, 
Completes  the  incomplete  and  saves  the  thing." 

"The  Ring  and  the  Book"  is  Browning's  test  of  this 
proposition.  Taking  facts  and  persons  as  history  fur- 
nished, he  fused  his  live  soul  with  the  inert  materials, 
vitalized  them  by  contact  with  himself,  his  motive 
being  to  write  a  book  which  would  mean  beyond  the 
facts,  suffice  the  needs  of  art,  and  save  the  soul  be- 
side. An  effect  in  soul  can  be  secured  only  by  such 
informing  process.  There  is  but  this  means  of  soul 
enlargement.  Personality  is  given  increase  only  by 
contact  with  personality.  And  just  so  much  power 
proceeds  out  of  a  book  as  went  to  the  making  of  the 
composition. 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE  59 

The  striking  feature  of  Browning's  personality  is 
its  vigor — a  vigor  of  mind  and  body  that  gives  to  his 
whole  work  the  note  of  strenuousness,  a  vigor  of  soul 
that  makes  him  an  unconquerable  optimist.  Stren- 
uousness, the  outcome  of  physical  and  mental  vigor, 
and  optimism,  the  result  of  a  deeply  penetrative  insight, 
are  the  two  most  marked  characteristics  of  his  nature. 
Physical  and  spiritual  courage  enabled  him  to  describe 
himself  truthfully  as  "one  who  never  turned  his  back, 
but  marched  breast  forward;  never  doubted  clouds 
would  break ;  never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worst- 
ed, wrong  would  triumph;  held  we  fall  to  rise,  are 
baffled  to  fight  better,  sleep  to  wake."  This  might  and 
courage  are  infused  into  the  reader;  he  becomes  eager 
to  assume  an  armor,  seize  a  weapon,  and  strike  out  for 
some  cause  with  the  strength  of  a  newly  liberated  soul. 

But  vigor,  admirable  in  any  character,  is  not  enough 
for  purposes  of  conversion  and  vitalization.  Carlyle 
compares  with  Browning  in  point  of  vigor.  He  had  in- 
tensity, the  might  of  a  Titan.  But  to  what  end  was 
his  strength  expended?  Was  it  not  strength  beating  it- 
self out  against  prison  bars,  rather  than  strength  freely 
winging  its  way  to  new  heights?  Carlyle  lacked  the 
far-seeing  spirit.  He  knew  no  unity  in  the  chaos,  no 
clue  through  the  vast  revel  of  the  cosmic  atoms.  He 
was  short-sighted,  hemmed  in,  fought  in  desperation 
his  friend  and  foe  alike.  Consequently,  Carlyle  dis- 
courages, not  empowers.  He  never  sets  his  reader  on 
a  hill  or  starts  him  on  an  endless  journey.  For  the 
guide  himself  sees  no  goal  to  be  won,  not  even  the 
path  for  the  feet. 

Browning  contributes  power,  opens  up  vistas,  ex- 


60  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

plains  destiny,  imparts  hope,  reveals  the  goal.  It  is 
his  optimism  that  gives  carrying  power  to  his  personal 
vigor.  His  book  regenerates  through  the  fullness  and 
force  of  an  embodied  personality. 

III. 

A  second  aspect  of  Browning's  esotericism  is  dis- 
closed in  the  features  of  his  artistic  method.  Instead 
of  adopting  the  objective  stage  as  the  scene  of  his 
exploits,  he  chooses  for  a  worthier  place  the  soul  itself 
and  depends  upon  the  reader,  as  it  were,  to  supply 
the  footlights,  shift  the  scenes,  give  the  cues  and  per- 
form the  action.  The  method  which  he  follows  is  that 
of  suggestion,  for  the  success  of  which  the  active  re- 
sponse of  the  reader  is  required.  The  author  initiates 
the  poem  but  the  reader  completes  it.  In  "Pauline"  the 
action  in  seen  to  take  place  within  the  soul ;  the  actors 
are  desires,  passions,  and  thoughts,  and  without  sub- 
jective experience,  the  power  of  inner  sight,  the  reader 
can  not  follow  the  poem  or  understand  a  single  mo- 
tive. In  the  preface  to  "Paracelsus"  Browning  gave 
warning  to  his  readers:  "A  work  like  mine  depends 
on  the  intelligence  and  sympathy  of  the  reader  for  ;ts 
success — indeed  were  my  scenes  stars,  it  must  be  his 
co-operating  fancy  which,  supplying  all  chasms,  shall 
collect  the  scattered  lights  into  one  constellation — a 
Lyre  or  a  Crown." 

Not  only  is  the  process  of  a  poem  subjective  but 
also  its  unity.  What  one  may  call  logical  unity,  that 
form  which  characterizes  most  prose  and  some  poetry, 
is  external;  thought  grows  out  of  thought,  line  out 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE  61 

of  line,  in  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect.  But  syn- 
thetic unity  is  internal ;  there  are  no  visible  causes — 
only  effects.  Again  in  the  preface  to  "Paracelsus"  the 
author  explained  his  method :  "It  is  an  attempt  to  reverse 
the  method  usually  adopted  by  writers  whose  aim  is 
to  set  forth  any  phenomena  of  the  mind  or  passions, 
by  the  operation  of  persons  and  events;  and  that  in- 
stead of  having  recourse  to  an  external  machinery  of 
incidents  to  create  and  evolve  a  crisis  I  desire  to  pro- 
duce, I  have  ventured  to  display  somewhat  minutely 
the  mood  itself  in  its  rise  and  progress,  and  have 
suffered  the  agency  by  which  it  is  influenced  and  de- 
termined, to  be  generally  discernible  in  its  effects 
alone,  and  subordinate  throughout, 'if  not  altogether 
excluded."  In  many  cases,  then,  the  real  action  may 
precede  the  one  recorded.  The  poem  will  not  begin 
with  the  first  line  or  end  with  the  last  line;  it  is  that 
which  is  suggested.  The  real  poem  is  that  developed 
in  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  or  it  will  be  found 
floating  in  a  sea  of  idea.  The  unifying  element  is  the 
idea  and  not  the  form,  just  as  at  night  unity  is  given  the 
stars  by  the  sky  and  not  by  the  light.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible to  count  the  stars;  it  is  not  possible  to  enumerate 
all  the  facts  and  experiences  of  life,  but  the  multiple 
stars  are  unified  by  their  setting  in  a  single  sky  and 
the  multiple  facts  may  be  gathered  into  a  single  unify- 
ing principle,  some  universal  essence,  some  solvent 
of  experience.  Such  a  solvent  is  the  principle  of  Love. 
Browning's  poems  number  several  hundred ;  their  unity 
is  found  in  the  principle  of  Love.  This  form  of  unity 
I  would  call  idealistic  or  esoteric.  The  reader  dis- 
covers the  method  when  he  finds  that  he  must  read 


62  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

a  poem  through  before  the  meaning  of  the  whole  ap- 
pears, then  successive  readings  are  required  before 
its  full  significance  is  made  clear.  Such  is  the  method 
employed  by  seers  and  mystics.  Whitman  said:  "I 
will  not  make  poems  with  reference  to  parts.  But 
I  will  make  poems,  songs,  thoughts  with  reference  to 
ensemble.  And  I  will  not  sing  with  reference  to  a  day 
but  with  reference  to  all  days.  And  I  will  not  make 
a  poem  nor  the  least  part  of  a  poem  but  has  reference 
to  the  soul."  Similarly  Emerson  might  have  said:  "I 
will  not  write  essays  with  reference  to  parts  but  with 
reference  to  wholes."  For  the  unity  of  his  essays  is 
ideal  or  synthetic.  They  have  no  logic — nor  were  they 
meant  to  have  logic.  They  contain  something  better 
than  logic — a  universalizing  idea. 

Another  characteristic  of  Browning's  artistic  method 
is  the  correspondency  existing  between  form  and  con- 
tent. There  are  two  classes  of  poets,  the  traditional 
and  the  original.  The  first  class  aims  to  give  a  perfect 
objective  form  to  any  given  content,  the  form  being 
that  which  has  received  the  sanction  of  tradition.  The 
poet  of  the  second  class  permits  the  thought  to  shape 
itself,  striving  only  for  self  expression  or  revelation. 
In  a  passage  in  "Aurora  Leigh"  Mrs.  Browning  asks, 
"What  form  is  best  for  poems?"  Her  answer  is  given 
in  terms  of  the  untraditional  class: 
"Let  me  think 

Of  forms  leaa,  and  the  external.     Trust  the  spirit, 

As  souvran  nature  does,  to  make  the  form; 

For  otherwise  we  only  imprison  spirit 

And  not  emhody.     Inward  evermore 

To  outward — so  in  life,  and  so  in  art 

Which  still  is  life. 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       63 

Five  acts  to  make  a  play? 

And  why  not  fifteen?     Why  not  ten?  or  seven? 
What  matter  for  the  number  of  the  leaves, 
Supposing  the  tree  lives  and  grows?    Exact 
The  literal  unities  of  time  and  place, 
When  't  is  the  essence  of  passion  to  ignore 
Both  time  and  place?    Absurd.    Keep  up  the  fire 
And  leave  the  generous  flames  to  shape  themselves." 

This  quite  exactly  describes  the  usage  of  many  of  the 
leading  artists  of  the  century.  The  tendency  of  Wagner's 
method,  for  instance,  was  to  seek  artistic  effects  in  un~ 
derlying  harmonies  of  thought  and  tonality.  His  music 
springs  from  the  words,  and  the  words  from  the 
music.  "Unless  the  subject  absorbs  me  completely," 
Wagner  wrote  to  his  friend  Uhlig,  "I  cannot  produce 
twenty  bars  worth  listening  to."  And  again  he  said: 
"The  musical  phrases  fit  themselves  on  the  verses  and 
periods  without  any  trouble  on  my  part;  everything 
grows  as  if  wild  from  the  ground."  The  orchestra  is, 
therefore,  no  mere  accompaniment,  but  an  essential 
expression  of  the  thought  and  action.  "Every  bar  of 
music,"  the  author  explained  to  Liszt,  "is  justified  only 
by  the  fact  that  it  explains  something  in  the  action 
or  in  the  character  of  the  actor."  Always  his  themes 
originate  coherently  and  with  the  character  of  plastic 
phenomena.  In  other  words,  renouncing  the  artificial 
and  formal  symmetry  of  beat  and  measure,  he  endeav- 
ored to  correlate  physical  and  psychical  phenomena. 
The  beauty  of  his  music  is  one  that  belongs  to  idea. 
Such  also  is  the  beauty  of  Whitman's  poetry.  He 
dared  to  permit  the  original  creative  energy  to  issue 
forth  without  hindrance.  There  is  a  deep  in  man 
below  the  region  that  mind  arrogates  mastery  upon 


64  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

— a  deep  that  is  unsounded,  recognized  in  every  life 
but  not  defined.  The  pulsing,  dynamic  motion  of  that 
sea  gives  to  Whitman's  lines  their  form  and  fashion. 
They  are  absolutely  genuine,  faithful  to  the  mastery 
of  the  soul,  not  independent  as  fluency  and  ornamen- 
tation are,  but  dependent  as  truth  is  bound  to  be.  His 
poems  grew  out  of  their  source  as  unerringly  as  lilacs 
or  roses  on  a  bush.  He  is  as  careless  about  mere 
beauty  as  the  stars  about  numbers.  Said  another 
esoteric  artist,  the  French  painter  Millet:  "Beauty  is 
the  fit,  the  serviceable  character  well  rendered,  an  idea 
well  wrought  out  with  largeness  and  simplicity." 
"Beauty  is  expression.  If  I  am  to  paint  a  mother,  I 
shall  try  and  make  her  beautiful,  simply  because  she 
is  looking  at  her  child."  "Has  not  everything  in 
creation  its  own  place  and  hour?  Who  would  ven- 
ture to  say  that  a  potato  is  inferior  to  a  pomegranate?" 
In  proof  of  these  statements  Millet  would  point  to  cer- 
tain frescoes  of  Giotto  at  Padua  and  show  how  the 
expression,  the  character  in  them  was  everything. 
Their  naturalness  was  fine  even  if  it  were  only  that  of 
one  man  washing  the  feet  of  another.  And  then  by 
way  of  contrast  he  would  show  the  works  of  Titian 
such  as  "The  Nativity":  "There,"  he  would  say,  "the 
figures  lack  the  roughness  of  the  peasant  type,  the 
room  is  unlike  a  stable,  the  child  is  naked  instead  of 
being  wrapped  in  woolens.  There  you  see  the  begin- 
ning of  an  art  of  ornamentation." 

In  Browning  the  intimacy  between  the  outer  and  the 
inner  is  perhaps  the  closest  in  literary  history.  His 
style  and  rhetoric  are  always  dramatic.  The  inner  and 
the  outer  exactly  correspond.  Instead  of  having  a  few 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       65 

standard  forms  or  molds  of  expression  he  has  as  many 
forms  as  poems.  The  critical  question  we  have  a  right 
to  ask  is  concerning  the  adequacy  of  expression.  Such 
queries  as:  Is  the  poem  musical,  has  it  perfect  rhyme, 
is  it  smooth,  soft,  metrical,  well  ordered? — such  quer- 
ies will  not  reach  the  heart  of  the  matter  at  all.  But 
has  the  poem  character,  does  it  say  what  it  means,  does 
it  act  genuinely  out  of  its  own  substance? — these 
questions  will  win  the  secret.  The  poems  display 
a  beauty  that  is  not  formal,  but  characteristic.  The 
love  poems,  for  instance,  which  exhibit  the  perfect  union 
of  kindred  lives,  are  of  unvarying  sweetness.  Hate  will 
introduce  at  once  a  jarring,  discordant  note,  as  in  the 
"Spanish  Cloister."  The  Gipsy's  song  in  the  "Flight 
of  the  Duchess,"  and  the  recital  called  "Mesmerism/* 
have  mesmeric  power  to  loosen  and  to  bind.  The 
"Cavalier  Tunes"  move  to  their  appropriate  measures; 
the  marching  of  the  soldiery,  the  circling  of  wine  cups 
in  the  air,  the  galloping  of  horses.  "The  Grammar- 
ian's Funeral"  proceeds  by  slow  steps  and  solemn 
pauses.  "Abt  Vogler"  opens  with  the  pulse  of  the 
music  that  is  still  beating  in  the  musician's  soul.  "An- 
drea del  Sarto"  reflects  the  quiet  silver  gray  of  the 
evening  and  darkens  with  the  spread  of  night  over 
the  painter's  home.  In  these  poems,  Browning  proves 
himself  the  undisputed  master  of  the  psychological 
method. 

Any  genuine  criticism  of  Browning  starts  then  from 
the  inside,  and  this  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  forms 
of  criticism,  requiring  preparation  both  deep  and  wide, 
deep  in  personality,  wide  in  knowledge.  Any  techni- 
cian, however  evil-minded,  can  correct  bad  drawing, 


06  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

but  only  one  who  has  the  capacity  for  being  inspired 
can  interpret  drawing.  The  critic  must  become  the 
artist,  he  takes  his  stand  at  the  center,  and  watches  the 
growth  of  form  out  of  thought,  a  growth  that  in  the 
case  of  a  great  and  genuinely  creative  artist  is  always 
vital  and  inevitable.  It  is  to  the  critics  of  the  formal 
type  that  Browning  turns  in  one  of  his  poems : 


"Was  it  grammar  wherein  you  would  'coach' 

You — pacing  in  even  that  paddock 

Of  language  alloted  you  ad  hoc, 
With  a  clog  at  your  fetlocks — you  scorners 
Of  me  free  of  all  its  four  corners? 
Was  it  'clearness  of  words  which  convey  thought'? 
Aye,  if  words  never  needed  enswathe  aught 

But  ignorance,  impudence,   envy 
And  malice — which  word-swathe  would  then  vie 
With  yours   for   a   clearness   crystalline? 

But  had  you  to  put  in  one  small  line 
Some   thought   hig  and   bouncing — as  waddle 
Of  goose,  born  to  cackle  and  waddle 
And  bite  at  man's  heel,  aa  Goose-wont  ia 
Never  felt  plague  its  puny  os  frontis, 
You'd  know,  as  you  hissed,  spat  and  sputtered, 

Clear  cackle  is  easily  uttered!" 


V. 


A  third  aspect  is  the  philosophic.  Browning  is  a 
profound  thinker.  Having  philosophic  content  to  dis- 
close, he  employs  for  that  purpose  innumerable  sym- 
bols. His  ideas  rarely  appear  in  their  abstractedness  but 
as  draped  in  sights  and  sounds.  Through  the  sym- 
bols we  are  able  to  reach  back  to  the  ideas  and  dis- 
cover a  complete  systematic  philosophy.  The  sym- 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       67 

bols,  in  short,  relate  to  just  three  themes :  the  Good, 
the  True  and  the  Beautiful,  which  in  the  last  syn- 
thesis become  resolved  in  the  one  supreme  conception 
of  the  Absolute  Love.  All  the  incidents  and  persons 
are  absorbed  in  the  idea.  The  objects  are  multiple, 
but  the  idea  is  one.  What  has  been  accomplished 
is  the  illustration  of  a  transcendental  philosophy. 
Browning  has  done  for  idealism  what  Dante  did  for 
mediaeval  theology — made  it  visible.  We  perceive 
in  his  poems  philosophy  in  masks.  Philosophy  loves 
and  hates,  hopes  and  fears,  strives,  fails,  succeeds. 
Wre  perceive  men  in  many  guises  and  in  many  cir- 
cumstances, governed  by  Reason.  We  contemplate 
thought  thinking  itself,  then  by  a  strange  indirection 
we  become  the  thinker,  and  construct  a  philosophy: 
God  in  the  absolute  is  the  ultimate  essence,  with  at- 
tributes of  Power  and  Love.  The  particular  and  tem- 
poral modes  of  Power's  and  Love's  manifestation  are 
Truth,  Beauty,  and  Love,  with  their  opposites,  False- 
hood, Ugliness,  and  Hate.  The  triad  of  positive  and 
continuing  factors,  while  existing  in  correlation  (since 
their  ground  is  the  one  Unity),  have  different  means 
of  expression  in  Time,  and  require  for  perception  in 
the  human  the  development  of  special  faculties.  Truth 
abides  in  the  objective  realm,  where  God's  Power  op- 
erates, and  is  the  concern  of  the  Intellect.  Beauty 
and  Love  reside  in  the  subjective,  where  God's  Love 
is  made  manifest,  and  are  the  motives,  respectively,  of 
Feeling  and  the  Moral  Will.  Truth  is  abstract,  and  is 
gained  by  observational  and  ratiocinative  process, 
having  its  ground  in  the  object  world.  Beauty  and 
Love  are  concrete,  and  rest  in  immediate  perception, 


68  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

since  they  begin  and  end  in  human  consciousness. 
The  scientist  approaches  God  by  unending  steps  of 
hypothesis  and  proof;  the  artist  and  lover  know  Him 
face  to  face.  Art  and  religion,  in  their  turn,  while 
agreeing  in  their  intuitional  and  concrete  methods, 
are  differentiated  by  the  medium  in  which  each  has 
its  operation.  Love  is  purely  spiritual,  having  its 
source  in  God ;  art  is  publication,  and  in  order  to 
affect  the  sensibilities  of  men,  employs  material  media 
— stone,  color,  sound  or  language.  For  the  exhibition 
and  dispersion  of  this  metaphysics,  Browning's  poems 
may  be  said  to  exist. 

In  one  thing,  Browning  as  becomes  a  poet,  stands 
supreme,  namely,  in  the  emphasis  placed  upon  Love. 
Other  philosophers  had  chosen  for  their  absolute  prin- 
ciple Idea,  as  with  Hegel,  or  Will,  as  with  Schopen- 
hauer. The  poet  saw  that  the  solvent  of  all  phenom- 
ena, natural  and  spiritual,  was  Love.  To  know  Love 
is  to  know  God.  And  Browning  has  lovers  of  many 
kinds — the  Grammarian,  who  loved  knowledge  and 
devoted  his  life  with  enthusiasm  to  the  doctrine  of 
de  and  oiin;  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  who  loved  his  Flor- 
ence and  its  environment  of  mountain  and  wood; 
Aprille,  who  loved  Beauty,  whose  aspiration  it  was 
to  carve  in  stone  the  forms  of  things,  and  for  his 
shapes  to  paint  a  world,  and  into  his  world  to  infuse 
through  song  all  passions  and  soft  emotions,  and,  con- 
summating all,  to  supply  all  chasms  with  music ;  then 
above  all,  the  lovers  of  Love:  Rudel,  Norbert,  Pom- 
pilia,  who,  though  suffering  deprivation  and  pain, 
found  light  enough  in  the  eyes  of  the  loved  one  to  rise 
to  heaven. 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE  69 

Love  is  aspiration,  the  want  and  passion  of  the 
soul,  the  Platonic  madness.  It  is  the  pursuit  of  some- 
thing, the  eager  quest  of  an  ideal. 

Metaphysical  as  this  conception  is,  Browning  does 
not  lose  himself  in  the  abstraction,  but  faces  fairly 
and  courageously  the  actual  incidents  of  nature  and 
man.  Nature  exhibits  power  and  intelligence,  but  it 
seems  to  be  in  moral  strife,  indifferent  to  weal  or  woe ; 
but  penetrate  deeply  enough,  and  God  appears  in  the 
stock  and  the  stone,  in  the  plant  and  the  bird,  an  evo- 
lutionary force  tending  to  the  Good.  In  the  world  of 
men  wrong  is  often  on  the  throne,  and  evil  seems  often 
to  endure  beyond  the  good;  but  look  deeply  enough, 
and  the  wrong  is  righted  and  evil  is  seen  to  serve. 

Beyond  all  others,  Browning  is  the  poet  of  love  in 
its  human  aspect.  You  will  not  find  anywhere,  ex- 
cept in  modern  fiction,  a  treatment  of  the  relations 
between  the  sexes  so  honest  and  truthful.  Other 
poets  have  shunned  this  field,  except  to  write  sonnets 
to  their  mistresses'  eyebrows.  Were  it  not  for  the 
novel,  the  Italian  opera,  and  Browning,  we  would 
hardly  be  aware  of  the  presence  of  two  sexes  in  the 
world  of  artistic  folk.  If  a  New  Zealander  were  to 
visit  America  with  Emerson  as  a  guide-book,  what  il- 
lumination would  he  receive  concerning  the  most  com- 
mon facts  that  would  meet  his  observation.  Emerson 
suspected  the  sexes.  He  was  silent  about  them,  be- 
cause his  philosophy  of  idea  did  not  contain  them. 
But  what  a  multitude  of  men  and  women  throng 
Browning's  pages — men  and  women,  loving,  hating, 
united,  estranged,  in  every  degree  of  relationship.  A  poet 
who  starts  right  is  apt  to  conclude  right.  He  wins 


70  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

our  allegiance  by  his  truthfulness  in  treating  the 
world's  most  primitive  theme. 

From  this  philosophy  seen  in  essence  in  the  life  of 
men  and  women,  the  larger  theory  of  the  universe 
proceeds.  The  universe  is  love  coming  into  mani- 
festation. The  world  is  a  becoming.  The  mode  is 
evolutionary,  an  unending  process.  Love  was  at  its 
beginning,  accompanying  the  "first  huge  Nothing." 
Slowly  the  plan  of  the  earth  unrolled — a  plan  involving 
love  as  its  motive  and  end.  Man  appears  endowed  with 
unsatisfied  yearnings.  With  man  began  a  tendency  to 
God.  In  the  order  of  process  a  Christ  appeared,  a  god- 
man,  the  all-loving,  fulfilling  the  prophecy  of  the  uni- 
verse, outlining  what  was  to  be.  In  the  fullness  of  time 
men  shall  be  as  gods.  Love  shall  reign  from  star  to  star. 

Concerning  the  evolutionary  process  Browning  ad- 
vances the  following  propositions :  Evolution  is  an  order 
imposed  on  every  object  in  virtue  of  its  being.  There  is 
no  escape.  If  the  object  lags  at  one  point,  it  is  hastened 
at  another.  All  things  are  thrust  out  into  the  cosmic 
stream.  The  soul  of  things  moves  as  the  planets  in  their 
orbit,  hasting,  unresting.  Redemption  is  wrought  into 
the  very  constitution  of  things.  The  Christs  do  not  save 
— the  universe  saves. 

The  sign  of  evolution  is  aspiration.  Growth  is  a  com- 
ing into  being.  The  whole  universe  groans  in  its  travail, 
yearning  for  accession  of  life.  It  reaches  out  its  hands 
after  God.  It  is  not  what  man  does,  but  what  he  would 
do,  that  exalts  him.  There  is  no  good  fixed  and  abso- 
lute, the  attainment  of  which  marks  one's  salvation.  The 
good  is  the  desire  for  the  good.  Salvation  is  a  process. 
Attainment  is  a  tendency.  Paracelsus  reached  the  point 


THE  ESOTERIC  TENDENCY  IN  LITERATURE       71 

of  death,  with  body  marred  and  soul  a  wreckage,  but  he 
pressed  God's  lamp  to  his  breast.  He  saw  the  truth,  and 
the  seeing  gave  him  means  for  a  never  ending  progress. 
What  he  achieved  was  not  a  fixed  salvation,  but  a  ten- 
dency. All  good  is  relative. 

The  accompaniment  of  evolution  is  struggle.  Ma- 
terials offer  obstruction  to  spiritual  possession.  The 
artist  finds  his  media  intractable.  He  cannot  mold  the 
clay  as  he  would ;  he  shapes,  re-shapes,  adds,  subtracts 
the  stubborn  materials,  only  to  make  a  shape  all  unlike 
his  desire.  So  life  presents  unsealed  walls.  Our  pur- 
poses are  balked.  Nevertheless,  there  can  be  no  peace. 
Browning  sounds  the  call  to  battle.  He  does  not  avoid 
the  evil,  waiting  for  Nirvana,  an  ending  in  dream.  Rather 
he  welcomes  the  strife,  grapples  with  the  evil,  endures 
the  pain  and  defeat.  That  is  the  way  of  the  world,  not 
to  be  resisted. 

Evolution  is  eternal.  As  love  was  at  the  beginning, 
so  love  continues  in  the  process.  There  is  no  stoppage ; 
there  can  be  no  stoppage.  Love  is  exhaustless.  Immor- 
tality is  not  a  dogma — it  is  an  experience.  It  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  growth  in  love.  , 

Starting  with  an  esoteric  philosophy,  the  principle  of 
which  works  by  inner  evolutionary  or  esoteric  means, 
the  very  outworking  of  this  principle  in  his  own  life 
lead  Browning  to  personalize  his  poetry  and  to  follow 
the  evolutionary  or  esoteric  method  in  the  forms  of  his 
art. 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART:  GEORGE 
INNESS. 


"Some  persons  suppose,"  said  George  Inness,  in  one  of 
his  wonderfully  suggestive  conversations,  "that  land- 
scape has  no  power  to  communicate  human  sentiment: 
but  this  is  a  great  mistake.  The  civilized  landscape  pe- 
culiarly can,  and  therefore  I  love  it  more  and  think  it 
more  worthy  of  reproduction  than  that  which  is  savage 
and  untamed.  It  is  more  significant."  In  these  words, 
George  Inness,  whom  I  fain  would  believe  the  greatest 
among  landscape  artists,  touches  upon  a  discovery  that 
the  human  mind  has  been  long  in  making;  the  discovery 
of  the  essential  unity  and  kinship  of  all  living  things,  the 
discovery  that  landscape,  sunshine  and  atmosphere  yield 
a  full  and  adequate  response  to  human  thought  and  feel- 
ing, that  these  have  significance,  not  only  in  their  own 
right,  but  also  as  defining  and  interpreting  man's  own 
subjectivity. 

The  stages  of  exploration  whereby  the  world's  paint- 
ers have  approached  the  monistic  conception  are  three: 
the  first,  a  transitional  era,  during  which,  having  some 
faint  perception  of  kinship  with  nature,  men  freed  them- 
selves from  the  theological  dogma  of  dualism ;  the  second, 
the  stage  of  realism,  when  under  the  direction  of  ma- 
terialistic science,  painters  looked  outwardly  and  de- 
scribed phenomena  in  their  superficial  aspect;  the  third, 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  73 

that  of  idealization,  corresponding  to  the  modern  stage 
of  monistic  science,  when  the  discovery  was  made  that 
nature  has  its  mystery,  that  there  is  something  underly- 
ing the  objective  reality,  that  "something,"  perceived  by 
Wordsworth,  "whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
and  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air,  and  the  blue  sky, 
and  in  the  mind  of  man,"  and  which  is  further  described 
as  "a  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels  all  thinking  things, 
all  objects  of  all  thought,  and  rolls  through  all  things." 
The  time  of  emancipation  and  first  discovery  was  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries,  and  exactly  coincided 
with  the  emancipatory  movements  inaugurated  by  Luther 
in  the  sphere  of  religion  and  by  Copernicus  and  Galileo 
in  the  realm  of  knowledge.  Nature,  to  be  sure,  had  been 
employed  to  some  extent  by  the  early  Italian  masters, 
but  simply  as  background.  In  the  paintings  of  Fra 
Filippo  Lippi  and  Botticelli  and  other  members  of  the 
Renaissance  group,  even  as  early  as  Fra  Angelico  of  the 
strictly  pietisic  and  ethical  school,  appear  charming  little 
bits  of  landscape  hidden  away  in  the  background  of 
madonnas  and  saints,  seen  perhaps  only  through  win- 
dows and  open  doors  as  if  the  caprice  or  accident  of  the 
moment.  And  in  these  dainty  glimpses  of  clouds,  woods, 
mountain  and  river  the  suggestion  is  stealthily  made  that 
saints  and  madonnas  were  not  wholly  heavenly  minded, 
but  lived  environed  by  the  facts  of  this  our  mundane 
sphere.  "The  world's  no  blot  for  us,  nor  blank,"  Brown- 
ing makes  Lippi  say,  "It  means  intensely  and  means 
good."  The  discoveries  of  science,  the  substitution  of 
the  sun  for  the  earth  as  the  center  of  the  planetary  sys- 
tem, destroyed  forever  the  egotistic  assumption  of  the 
centrality  of  man  in  the  universe;  and  the  history  of 


74  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

painting  from  that  day  to  this  might  almost  be  said  to 
consist  in  the  disappearance  of  man  as  having  sole  and 
independent  value,  and  in  the  advance  of  the  backgrounds 
of  the  early  painters  into  the  foreground  of  art's  canvas. 
By  the  seventeenth  century,  in  the  works  of  Reubens, 
the  Poussins,  Claude  Lorraine,  and  Salvator  Rosa,  the 
independence  of  landscape  is  acknowledged.  Nature, 
it  is  true,  was  treated  by  these  painters  with  hardly  a 
touch  of  realism.  Their  canvases  are  formal,  pedantic 
and  artificially  composed.  But  their  task  was  not  to  re- 
alize but  to  emancipate.  There  is  even  the  need  of  com' 
promise  and  in  many  paintings,  whose  chief  interest  is 
clearly  that  of  the  natural  scene,  some  figure  from  the 
old  scriptures  or  reminiscent  of  the  mythologies  would 
be  included  in  deference  to  the  traditions. 

It  belonged  to  the  Dutch  painters  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  to  the  group  about  Hobbema  and  Ruisdael,  to 
ascertain  with  accuracy  the  content  of  the  objective 
vision.  Certain  aspects  of  nature,  as  the  forms  of  trees, 
the  manner  of  running  water  and  moving  clouds,  occa- 
sionally the  fugitive  play  of  light,  were  understood  by 
them  as  never  before,  and  recorded  with  fidelity  to  the 
object  Their  pictures  bear  signs  of  their  penetrating 
observation;  their  objects  are  heavy  with  the  pull  of 
gravitation,  but  of  inter-penetration,  of  the  sense  of  re- 
lationship between  the  painter  and  the  scene  there  is 
scarcely  a  token.  In  the  Christian  masters  there  was 
lacking  the  sense  of  the  actual;  even  more  do  we  miss 
in  the  work  of  the  Dutch  painters  of  this  period  the  feel- 
ing of  surmise.  But  after  long  centuries  of  neglect  of 
nature,  their  task  was  to  study,  explore  and  record  the 
objective  world.  To  man  and  objects  they  gave  equal 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  75 

value.     Their   motive  was   realism ;   their   merits   were 
frankness  and  fidelity  in  handling  the  objects  of  vision. 

Upon  the  Dutch  painters  and  their  honesty  of  report 
the  idealists  built  their  superstructure — or  if  this  figure 
be  too  dualistic,  let  it  be  said  that  when  Constable  and 
Gainsborough  saw  how  good  the  actual  appeared  when 
seen  with  the  objective  eye,  they  were  emboldened  to 
record  the  results  of  a  more  penetrating  and  sensitizing 
vision.  The  movement  now  begun  in  England  and  con- 
tinued in  France  by  the  Barbizon  painters  has  reference 
to  the  idealization  of  landscape,  or  more  properly  to  the 
realization  of  the  ideal  or  sensient  element  in  landscape. 
Varied  as  are  the  actual  forms  of  nature,  the  perception 
on  the  part  of  modern  painters  of  the  sensient  life  gov- 
erning forms  is  even  more  various,  the  difference,  how- 
ever, being  measured  by  relative  depth  of  vision  rather 
than  by  the  presence  or  absence  of  humanizing  capacity ; 
for  one  and  all  are  monistic  in  tendency  and  perceive 
that  nature  is  passional  and  that  passion  is  natural.  Con- 
stable, a  painter  of  the  transition,  carries  still  something 
of  the  material  burden  of  the  Dutch  painters ;  but  so  deli- 
cate is  Corot  in  sentiment  that  only  the  quiet  morning  or 
the  evening,  treated  with  Doric  simplicity  and  harmony, 
measures  his  still  nature.  Less  classic  than  Corot,  Rous- 
seau, whose  symbols  are  distance,  sky  depth,  and  intri- 
cate woods,  strikes  deeper  into  nature's  sentiency.  In 
Delacroix  the  objects  of  nature  appear  almost  altogether 
as  symbols,  so  conscious  is  he  of  kinship  in  language. 
With  George  Inness  the  identities  are  well  nigh  perfected, 
with  the  emphasis  laid  perhaps  a  little  too  strongly  upon 
his  own  impression :  yet  I  would  not  call  Inness — or 
indeed  any  painter  of  this  group — an  impressionist,  but 


76  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

an  expressionist.  His  two  hundred  and  more  land- 
scapes are  the  notes  and  jottings  of  a  soul's  biography. 
Could  all  his  paintings  be  displayed  together  in  the  order 
of  their  composition,  they  would  show  even  in  their  so- 
lution of  the  problems  of  light  and  perspective  the  stages 
of  his  spiritual  history.  To  this  state,  then,  landscape  art 
has  arrived :  a  single  painting  may  be  faithful  at  once  to 
what  is  called  nature  and  to  what  is  termed  human ;  with- 
out neglecting  any  of  the  problems  of  natural  form  and 
color,  a  painter  may  serve  his  own  need  of  self  expression. 
"Was  somebody,"  said  Whitman,  "asking  to  see  the  soul  ? 
See  your  own  shape  and  countenance,  persons,  substances, 
beasts,  the  trees,  the  running  rivers,  the  rocks  and  sands." 


II. 


The  annals  of  Inness's  life  are  simple.  A  biographer 
would  note  his  Scotch  descent,  the  general  Celtic  bear- 
ing and  habit  of  gesture,  rapid  speech,  and  imaginative 
conversations,  which  might  lead  to  the  recollection  of 
Matthew  Arnold's  proposition  that  from  the  Celtic  the 
English  derives  its  "natural  magic."  He  would  mark 
the  slender,  agile  form,  the  lines  of  the  face,  denoting 
extraordinary  fire  and  energy — the  face  that  in  later  life 
had  the  drawn  intensity  of  Michael  Angelo's.  The  paint- 
er's career — the  labor  he  endured  first  as  a  grocer's  ap- 
prentice, then  in  an  engraver's  shop,  before  he  found  his 
kingdom,  and  then  his  struggles  for  place  and  mainten- 
ance after  his  true  work  had  begun — would  illustrate  the 
certainty  of  genius  of  possessing  its  own.  His  visits  to 
Europe  and  acquaintance  with  the  Barbizon  painters 
whereby  the  direction  of  his  art  was  confirmed  would  be 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  77 

pointed  to  as  one  of  the  happy  accidents  whereof  no  man's 
life  is  bereft.  His  excitement  at  the  news  of  the  firing 
on  Fort  Sumpter  and  his  insistence  upon  going  to  the 
war,  though  he  could  not  pass  the  examination,  would 
furnish  diversion  and  be  seen  to  redound  to  the  painter's 
humanity.  The  record  of  idyllic  periods,  of  home  and 
studio  life  at  and  near  New  York  and  Boston,  of  suc- 
cesses and  increasing  fame,  would  make  up  a  biography 
that  in  its  main  lines  would  be  not  unlike  that  of  many 
others  born  in  uninspiring  environment,  but  destined  by 
pure  force  of  genius  to  achieve  great  name  and  fame. 

III. 

To  get  the  secret  of  an  art  so  unique  in  its  quality  of 
balancing  the  outer  and  inner,  one  must  seize  on  the 
genius  itself.  Primarily,  Inness  was  a  man  of  ideas, 
holding  carefully  considered  opinions  not  merely  upon 
art,  but  respecting  questions  of  science  and  metaphysics. 
He  was  himself  a  "spiritualist"  and  agreed  on  the  whole 
with  Swedenborg.  He  was  a  voluminous  writer  in  both 
prose  and  verse,  and  left  masses  of  manuscript.  His 
writings  prove  him  to  have  been  a  mystic.  One  of  his 
studies  was  concerning  the  science  of  numbers,  wherein 
he  developed  a  system  of  mathematical  symbols:  thus  I 
denoting  infinity,  2  conjunction,  3  potency,  4  substance, 
5  germination,  6  material  condition,  etc.  While  fre- 
quently incoherent  and  rhapsodical  in  composition,  there 
was  no  lack  of  force  or  directness  in  speech.  He  was 
an  astonishing  talker  when  once  aroused  to  deny  or  af- 
firm— as  strenuous  as  Carlyle  and  with  something  of  the 
same  Scottish  disputatious  nature.  His  judgments  were 


78  THE  CHANGING  OUDEK 

invariably  formed  on  the  authority  of  the  inner  conscious- 
ness. "The  consciousness  of  immortality,"  he  once  said, 
"is  wrapped  up  in  all  the  experiences  of  my  life,  and  this 
is  to  me  the  end  of  the  argument.  Man's  unhappiness 
arises  from  disobedience  to  the  monitions  within  him." 
In  argument,  he  supported  the  side  of  the  sincere  and  un- 
conventional. Among  painters  he  admired  such  men  as 
Daubigny  and  Rousseau  in  whom  there  was  no  trace  of 
affectation.  He  was  impatient  with  men  like  Bouguereau 
and  Verboeckhoven,  who  painted  "mercantile  imbecili- 
ties" from  simple  spiritual  inertia.  He  thought  Meis- 
sonier,  Jerome  and  Detaille  wonderful  painters,  but  that 
their  aim  was  material  rather  than  spiritual,  imitative 
rather  than  creative.  He  pronounced  Turner  full  of 
falsity  arid  clap-trap,  saying  that  Turner's  Slave  Ship 
was  the  "most  infernal  piece  of  clap-trap  ever  painted," 
that  there  was  nothing  in  it  and  it  was  not  even  a  fine 
bouquet  of  color.  He  thought  Millet  the  greatest  figure 
painter  that  ever  lived,  that  he  conveyed  the  sentiment  of 
labor  and  home  with  just  enough  of  objective  force  for 
perfect  lucidity.  "If  a  painter,"  he  said,  "could  unite 
Meissonier's  careful  reproduction  of  details  with  Corot's 
inspirational  power,  he  would  be  a  very  god  of  art.  But 
Corot's  art  is  higher  than  Meissonier's.  Let  Corot  paint 
a  rainbow  and  his  work  reminds  you  of  the  poet's  descrip- 
tion, The  rain-bow  is  the  spirit  of  the  flowers/  Let  Meis- 
sonier  paint  a  rain-bow,  and  his  work  reminds  you  of  a 
definition  in  chemistry.  The  one  is  poetic  truth,  the  other 
is  scientific  truth ;  the  former  is  aesthetic,  the  latter  is 
analytic." 

Among  his  views  on  art,  I  note  the  following :    "What 
the  painter  tries  to  do  is  simply  to  reproduce  in  other 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  79 

minds  the  impression  which  a  scene  has  made  upon  him. 
A  work  of  art  does  not  appeal  to  the  intellect.  It  does 
not  appeal  to  the  moral  sense.  Its  aim  is  not  to  instruct, 
not  to  edify,  but  to  awaken  an  emotion.  This  emotion 
may  be  one  of  love,  of  pity,  of  hate,  of  pleasure,  or  of 
pain ;  but  it  must  be  a  single  emotion  if  the  work  has 
unity,  as  every  such  work  should  have,  and  the  true 
beauty  of  the  work  consists  in  the  sentiment  or  emotion 
which  it  inspires.  Details  in  the  picture  must  be  elabor- 
ated only  full  enough  to  reproduce  the  impression  that 
the  artist  wishes  to  produce.  When  more  than  this  is 
done,  the  impression  is  weakened  or  lost,  and  we  see 
simply  an  array  of  external  things,  which  may  be  very 
cleverly  painted  and  look  very  real  but  which  do  not 
make  an  artistic  painting.  The  effort  and  the  difficulty 
of  the  artist  is  to  combine  the  two:  to  make  the  thought 
clear  and  to  preserve  the  unity  of  impression."  "The  true 
use  of  art  is,  first,  to  cultivate  the  artist's  own  spiritual 
nature,  and  secondly,  to  enter  as  a  factor  in  general  civili- 
zation. Every  artist  who,  without  reference  to  external 
circumstances,  aims  truly  to  represent  the  ideas  and  emo- 
tions which  come  to  him  when  he  is  in  the  presence  of 
nature,  is  in  process  of  his  own  spiritual  development, 
and  is  a  benefactor  of  his  race.  No  man  can  attempt  the 
reproduction  of  any  idea  within  him  from  a  pure  motive, 
as  love  of  the  idea  itself,  without  being  in  the  course  of 
his  own  regeneration.  The  difficulties  necessary  to  be 
overcome  in  communicating  the  substance  of  his  idea 
(which  in  this  case  is  feeling  or  emotion),  to  the  end  that 
the  idea  may  be  more  and  more  perfectly  conveyed  to 
others,  involves  the  exercise  of  his  intellectual  faculties ; 
and  soon  the  discovery  is  made  that  the  moral  element 


80  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

underlies  all,  that  unless  the  moral  also  is  brought  into 
play,  the  intellectual  faculties  are  not  in  condition  for 
conveying  the  artistic  impulse  or  inspiration."  "The 
principles  that  underlie  art  are  spiritual  principles — the 
principle  of  unity  and  the  principle  of  harmony.  Christ 
never  uttered  a  word  that  forbade  the  erecting  or  enjoy- 
ing of  sensuous  form.  The  fundamental  necessity  of  the 
artistic  life  is  the  cultivation  of  the  moral  powers,  and  the 
loss  of  those  powers  is  the  loss  of  artistic  power.  The 
efforts  of  the  Catholic  Church  to  excite  the  imagination 
are  admirable,  because  the  imagination  is  the  life  of  the 
soul.  Art  is  an  essence  as  subtle  as  the  humanity  of  God, 
and  like  it,  is  personal  only  to  love — a  stranger  to  the 
worldly  minded,  a  myth  to  the  intellect.  I  would  not  give 
a  fig  for  art  ideas  except  as  they  represent  what  I,  in 
common  with  all  men,  need  most — the  good  of  our  prac- 
tice in  the  art  of  life.  Rivers,  streams,  the  rippling  brook, 
hillsides,  sky,  and  clouds — all  things  that  we  see — will 
convey  the  sentiment  of  the  highest  art,  if  we  are  in  love 
with  God  and  the  desire  of  the  truth." 


IV. 


That  Inness  embodied  general  esoteric  ideas  and  mean- 
ings in  his  paintings  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  in  spite 
of  the  evidence  of  their  astonishing  objective  force.  He 
believed  himself  to  be  inspired,  and  that  "spirits"  super- 
intended his  painting.  His  mind  teemed  with  subjects, 
derived  from  sources  he  knew  not  of,  and  his  soul  con- 
ceived more  rapidly  than  even  his  busy  hand  could  shape. 
His  coloring,  rich  and  luminous,  has  both  objective  and 
symbolic  values.  I  doubt  not  that  the  lines  of  form  in 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  81 

his  pictures,  the  relation  of  perspective  and  distance,  were 
determined  in  accordance  with  a  subtle  symbolism  of  line 
and  number  for  the  interpretation  of  which  the  world 
has  no  key.  Most  of  his  pictures  regarded  objectively 
are  studies  in  light.  From  descriptive  notes  by  Richard 
Gruelle,  I  make  a  redaction  of  several  paintings : 

a.  You  are  looking  down  the  center  of  a  broad  street  in  a 
village.  In  the  distance  you  see  a  mass  of  indistinguishable  ob- 
jects, bathed  in  a  warm  purple  grey  atmosphere,  full  of  mysterious 
suggestiveness.  On  the  right  are  some  low  buildings  painted  with 
an  uncertain  effect.  Near  them  are  some  tall,  slender  trees  with 
tremulous  leafage.  Near  by  is  a  cottage,  rustic  and  picturesque, 
on  the  front  of  which  the  moon's  light  falls.  From  a  window  in 
this  light,  you  see  the  faint  glow  of  a  lamp,  whose  flickering  ray 
struggles  wierdly  with  that  of  the  moon.  A  bit  of  fence  and 
some  weeds  complete  this  part  of  the  picture.  In  the  mid-distance 
and  still  to  the  right,  some  trees  are  but  dimly  seen,  above  which 
are  the  spires  of  a  church.  On  the  left  is  a  group  of  trees,  clad 
in  golden  green-gray  foliage,  their  tall,  graceful  forms  casting 
long  phantom-like  shadows  on  the  ground.  In  the  center  of 
the  street  you  see  a  woman  accompanied  by  a  dog.  High  above, 
the  moon  wings  its  way  through  the  vast  expanse  of  ethereal  blue, 
while  just  above  are  tender  grey  clouds,  ghost  like  in  their  evasive- 
ness and  upon  which  the  moon's  light  makes  but  faint  impress. 
The  entire  scene  is  saturated  with  a  mysterious  light,  the  effect 
of  which  is  enhanced  by  the  lengthening  shadows  cast  from  the 
various  objects  and  falling  forward. 

6.  In  the  midst  of  a  bit  of  swampy  meadow,  where  weeds 
and  grasses  grow  in  great  luxuriance  and  are  accented  here  and 
there  by  clusters  of  wild  flowers,  stands  a  white  cow.  The  full 
ray  of  the  sunlight  falls  on  the  animal  with  almost  dazzling  bril- 
liancy, illuminating  the  surrounding  verdure  into  a  mass  of  beauti- 
ful yellow-green  hues.  The  upper  sky  is  cloudy,  a  shower  passing. 
From  the  upper  right  hand  of  the  canvas  and  extending  downward 
until  lost  among  the  grasses  is  a  beautiful  rain-bow.  To  the  left 
is  a  group  of  trees  robed  in  dark  luxuriant  green;  back  of  them 


82  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  clouds  are  torn  asunder  and  a  rift  of  sunlight  breaks  through. 
Over  all  ia  the  gloss  of  early  summer — the  very  essence  of  June. 

c.  A  sky  of  charming  blue,  flaked  with  fleecy  white  clouds 
which  hover  low  down  on  the  horizon.     A  distance  in  which  a 
picturesque  village  is  seen  nestling  snugly  among  foliage  of  mel- 
low coloring.     To  the  left  is  a  row  of  slender  trees  whose  pale 
yellosv  leafage  shimmers  in  sunlight,  which  falls  tenderly  on  the 
verdure  of  a  bit  of  meadow,  turning  it  into  a  mass  of  warm  yel- 
low green  found  only  in  Autumn.     This  light  merges  by  almost 
imperceptible  gradations  into  the  cool,  velvety  shadows  which  fall 
from  trees  of  sombre  coloring.     In  the  foreground   is   a  pool   of 
water  around  which  tall  grasses  and  weeds  grow.    Rich,  luminous 
and  transparent  the  picture  glows  with  the  beauty  of  harmony. 
It  is  that  coloring  in  which  there  are  woven  colors  that  thread 
up  through  and  form  into  tones  full  of  solemn  grandeur.    It  is  as 
a  beautiful  ode  to  Autumn,  yet  written  in  the  language  of  the 
painter  pure  and  simple. 

d.  You  are  in  the  midst  of  a  grand  old  forest  upon  which 
many  centuries  of  time  have  been  registered.     Here  we  have  the 
solemn  hush  of  the  primitive  solitude,  in  whose  awful  silence  you 
commune  with  the  soul  of  all  things.     There  are  no  figures  intro- 
duced; in  fact,  nothing  that  would  disturb  the  all  prevailing  senti- 
ment of  repose.     A  shaft  of  sunlight  tears  its  way  through  the 
dense  foliage,  turning  all  that  is  touched  into  deep  golden  tones 
save  where  it  falls  with  marvelous  beauty  and  power  upon  the 
trunk  of  an  immense  old  tree.    Here  lichen,  moss  and  fungus  are 
transformed  into  gleaming  color,   that   is  gem-like  in  its  effect. 
The  light,  which  seems  to  saturate  everything  clings  with  tenacity 
to  the  old  tree  as  if  it  wanted  to  linger.     From  this  brilliant 
point  the  eye  passes  through  gradation  of  rare  chromatic  beauty, 
into  velvety   shadows  whose  depths   are  filled  with   deep   sombre 
colorings  in  which  the  gamut  is  almost  exhausted.     These  tones 
likewise  grade  into  a  second  mass  of  light  farther  back  in  the 
picture  which  is  brought  into  contrast  with  the  cool  tones  which 
are  seen  in  the  extreme  distance.     Here  the  lights  are  cool  and 
phosphorescent    in    quality,    and    emerald    light    in    color.      As    a 
piece  of  coloring  it  is  unsurpassed.    The  relationship  of  light  and 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  83 

shade,  of  warm  and  cool  tones,  the  bold  rugged  drawing  of  the 
tree  forms,  are  well  nigh  perfect. 

The  last  picture,  entitled  "Sunset  in  the  Woods,"  was 
begun  at  the  moment  of  receiving  the  impression  of  the 
actual  scene,  but  waited  seven  years  for  completion. 
"The  idea,"  Inness  said  of  it,  "is  to  represent  an  effect 
of  light  in  the  woods  near  sundown,  but  to  allow  the  im- 
agination to  predominate."  Here  doubtless  is  the  secret 
of  the  art  of  Inness.  Fused  with  the  actual  landscape 
is  another  landscape.  Blended  with  the  thing  seen  is  the 
man  seeing.  But  landscape  and  painter  coincide  to  some 
purpose.  What  was  taken  from  the  landscape  that  was 
symbolic — what  was  contributed  by  Inness  that  the 
picture  might  be  expressive?  I  think  the  symbolism  of 
Inness's  paintings  refers  almost  without  exception  to 
what  is  evanescent  and  mysterious  in  all  life.  Inness  was 
attracted  to  light  on  account  of  its  elusiveness.  He 
loved  to  paint  at  the  hours  of  the  day  most  character- 
ized by  movement — he  seized  the  dawn  at  its  uprise,  the 
sunlight  in  wane,  the  clouds  that  chased  each  other  in  the 
air  or  as  shadows  over  the  earth.  He  intercepted  that 
most  subtle  and  mysterious  moment  when  sunlight  and 
moonlight  mingle,  and  shadows  cross.  In  such  moments 
Inness  realized  his  unity  with  nature.  In  evanescent 
light,  he  found  the  outward  tally  of  a  fugitive  soul  of 
fire. 

V. 

The  personal  characteristic  that  most  distinguished 
Inness  was  intensity.  It  is  the  mark  of  all  greatly  crea- 
tive natures,  of  those  who  develop  from  within  outward. 
When  absorbed  in  work,  the  lapse  of  time  was  never 


84  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

noticed.  He  was  known  to  work  at  times  nearly  the 
entire  day,  and  while  the  inspiration  lasted  the  impulse 
of  his  mind  seemed  to  extend  through  the  fingers  to  the 
brush,  and  fairly  energize  the  canvas.  Otherwhiles  his 
moods  were  changeful  and,  not  to  sacrifice  his  energy, 
he  would  arrange  a  number  of  canvases  in  his  studio 
upon  each  of  which  he  would  work  as  the  mood  directed. 
At  other  times,  the  picture  would  change  its  motive  under 
his  hand  and  starting  out  as  a  morning  scene  might  end 
as  a  summer  afternoon ;  or  dissatisfied,  picture  would  be 
imposed  upon  picture,  one  canvas  being  said  to  contain 
twenty-five  separate  and  superimposed  pictures.  To  a 
mind  controlled  from  without  by  codes  and  conventions, 
conduct  such  as  this  seems  indicative  of  madness.  Such 
phenomena,  however,  require  other  explanation.  "The 
question  is  not  yet  settled,"  said  Poe,  "whether  much 
that  is  glorious — whether  all  that  is  profound — does  not 
spring  from  moods  of  mind  exalted  at  the  expense  of  the 
general  intellect."  In  other  days  Inness  would  have  been 
spoken  of  as  "beloved  of  the  gods."  We  are  not  yet  cer- 
tain to  what  extent  a  sensitive  soul  may  work  under  sub- 
conscious direction,  from  what  universal  sources  a  genius 
may  trace  its  derivation. 

VI. 

In  France  the  reaction  against  the  positive  and  scien- 
tific has  gone  to  the  extreme  of  transcedentalism.  Purely 
subjective  painters,  like  the  so-called  French  Symbolists, 
will  employ  color  to  effect  psychic  states  with  no  inten- 
tion of  objective  simulation.  It  is  the  merit  of  Inness 
that  he  stayed  in  his  evolution  at  the  point  of  balance. 


SUBJECTIVE  LANDSCAPE  ART  85 

Because  he  reconciled  nature  and  the  soul  so  wholly  and 
joyously,  he  is  fitted  to  be  named  among  the  great 
monists.  He  has  many  affinities  with  Whitman.  They  were 
both  mystics  and  occultists  of  a  high  order,  yet  refused 
to  subdue  sensation  utterly  to  consciousness.  The  poet 
colors  a  landscape  with  the  sensory  appeal  of  the  painter, 
and  the  painter  meets  the  poet  on  the  high  plane  of  the 
spiritual.  They  are  both  pantheistic  and  monistic: 
Inness  more  special  and  subtle  in  his  sense  of  identity, 
Whitman  more  elemental  and  cosmic.  Where  Inness 
finds  in  the  evanescence  of  light  the  typical  symbol  of 
existence,  Whitman  seeks  the  sea  and  reads  in  its  abysmal 
motion,  its  ebb  and  flow,  the  secret  of  being : 

"Then  last  of  all,  caught  from  these  shores,  this  hill, 
Of  you  0  tides,  the  mystic  human  meaning: 
Only  by  law  of  you,  your  swell  and  ebb,  enclosing  me  the  same, 
The  brain  that  shapes,  the  voice  that  chants  this  song." 

Inness  was  more  intense  in  special  directions,  Whitman 
more  brooding  and  inclusive ;  but  both  were  original  and 
creative  and  gave  tokens  of  identical  inspiration.  In 
one  instance  the  poet  measured  strength  with  the  painter. 
To  accompany  Inness's  painting  "The  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death,"  and  to  correct  its  gloomy  view,  Whit- 
man wrote  "Death's  Valley :" 

"Nay,  do  not  dream,  designer  dark, 
Thou  hast  portray'd  or  hit  thy  theme  entire; 
I,  hoverer  of  late  by  this  dark  valley,  by  its-  confines,  having 

glimpses  of  it, 
Here  enter  lists  with  thee,  claiming  my  right  to  make  a  symbol 

too. 

For  I  have  seen  many  wounded  soldiers  die, 
After  dread  suffering — have  seen  their  lives  pass  off  with  smiles; 


86  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

And   I  have  watch'd  the   death-hours  of  the  old;   and   seen  the 

infant  die; 

The  rich,  with  all  his  nurses  and  his  doctors; 
And  then  the  poor,  in  meagrenesa  and  poverty; 
And  I  myself  for  long,  0  Death,  have  breath'd  my  every  breath 
Amid  the  nearness  and  the  silent  thought  of  thee. 

And  out  of  these  and  thee, 

I  make  a  scene,  a  song  (not  fear  of  thee, 

Xor  gloom's  ravines,  nor  bleak,  nor  dark — for  I  do  not  fear  thee, 

Nor  celebrate  the  struggle,  or  contortion,  or  hard-tied  knot), 

Of  the  broad,  blessed  light  and  perfect  air,  with  meadows,  rippling 

tides,  and  trees  and  flowers  and  grass, 
And   the   low   hum   of   living  breeze — and   in  the   midst   God's 

beautiful  eternal  right  hand, 
Thee,  holiest  minister  of  Heaven — thee,  envoy,  usherer,  guide  at 

last  of  all, 

Rich,  florid,  loosener  of  the  stricture-knot  call'd  life, 
Sweet,  peaceful,  welcome  Death." 

Though  Inness's  picture  is  filled  with  the  gloom  of  the 
valley,  yet  I  doubt  not  that  when  he  passed  through  on 
his  journey  he  might  have  uttered,  with  much  cheer,  the 
last  words  of  Daubigny :  "I'm  going  up  to  see  if  Corot 
has  any  new  subjects  to  paint." 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE. 
I. 

Two  modes  of  criticism  have  been  developed  in  the 
history  of  judgment  which  may  be  designated  by  the 
terms  "aristocratic"  and  "democratic,"  on  the  ground  that 
as  the  art  of  an  aristocracy  is  the  product  of  an  exclus- 
ive culture,  the  object  of  the  accompanying  criticism  is 
to  develop  and  discipline  "good  taste,"  and  as  the  art  of 
a  democracy  is  an  outcome  of  generous  human  impulses, 
the  aim  of  its  criticism  is  to  increase  and  fortify  per- 
sonality. 

In  a  "classic"  age,  the  ideal  of  which  is  to  have  and 
be  the  "best,"  the  fine  arts  are  patronized  and  enjoyed 
in  the  interests  of  an  intellectual  and  special  culture. 
The  reader  of  books,  reclining  at  ease  in  his  library  chair, 
assumes  the  judicial  attitude  and  essays  to  find  that  in 
the  book  which  accords  with  "good  taste"  and  "right 
reason."  He  concerns  himself  largely  with  questions  of 
taste,  matters  of  style,  and  principles  of  correct  compo- 
sition. A  Matthew  Arnold  selects  a  line  from  Dante  and 
one  from  Chaucer  and  uses  them  as  touchstones  of  pro- 
priety. The  aesthetic  canons  that  support  this  criticism 
relate  to  principles  of  refinement,  selection,  symmetry, 
balance  and  proportion,  the  general  effects,  that  is,  in- 
volved in  the  standard  classical  canon  of  order  in  variety. 

The  classical  canon  was  a  rule  of  temperance.  The 
Greeks  lived  resolutely  in  the  whole,  loving  equally  truth 


88  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

and  beauty  and  goodness,  proportioning  the  play  of  each 
faculty  so  as  to  secure  the  largest  total  effect  of  life.  With 
the  authority  of  their  matchless  achievements  they  im- 
posed upon  all  succeeding  art  and  criticism  an  aesthetics 
corresponding  to  their  ethics. 

But  the  classical  idea  of  perfection,  as  it  has  received 
application  in  the  modern  world,  is  an  ethics  of  restric- 
tion. Intellectualism  dominates  the  process.  Today  to 
be  cultured  in  the  classical  sense  means  to  be  intellec- 
tually refined  and  polished  and  to  have  the  impulses  of 
the  heart  well  under  the  control  of  the  head.  To  be 
socially  aristocratic  means  to  seek  the  attainment  that 
only  the  few  can  achieve  and  to  abhor  the  coarseness  and 
vulgarity  that  attach  to  the  general  mass.  So  to  be 
critically  aristocratic  is  to  love  the  good  form  and  the 
grand  manner  that  spring  from  a  prerogatived  culture 
and  to  detest  the  imperfections  that  belong  to  universal 
and  humanistic  art. 

The  first  great  force  that  affected  aesthetics  to  the 
opposition  of  the  exclusory  canon  of  culture  was  Chris- 
tianity. Christ  directed  the  sight  of  the  world  away 
from  the  external  to  the  truth  of  the  inner  life.  The 
beauty  of  his  religion  is  the  beauty  of  holiness.  The 
contest  between  the  two  principles  of  beauty  is  well  illus- 
trated in  "Quo  Vadis,"  by  Henryk  Sienkiewicz,  which 
may  be  read  as  an  allegory  of  the  struggle  between 
sense  and  soul  in  the  transition  period  from  paganism  to 
Christianity.  Greek  poetry  and  beauty  passed  with  the 
death  of  Petronius  and  Eunice,  but  a  higher  poetry  and 
beauty  was  born  at  the  marriage  of  Vinicius  and  Lygia. 
"Whoso  loves  beauty  is  unable  to  love  deformity,"  said 
Petronius,  the  arbiter  of  elegance.  But  in  the  mind  of 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  89 

Vinicius  was  generated  the  idea  that  another  beauty 
resided  in  the  world,  a  beauty  immensely  pure,  even 
though  deformed,  in  which  a  soul  abides. 

The  next  considerable  force  that  tended  to  modify  the 
classical  standards  was  science.  Instead  of  the  cultured 
man,  science  rewards  the  knowing  man;  and  instead  of 
the  art  of  "good  form,"  it  advocates  an  art  of  true  fact. 
In  one  sense  science  is  an  apotheosis  of  the  common- 
place. It  exalts  comprehensiveness.  From  its  micro- 
scope, piercing  inward  to  the  atom,  and  from  its  tele- 
scope, pointing  outward  to  the  star,  nothing  is  excluded 
that  is  inclusive.  The  love  of  pure  truth  which  science 
has  engendered,  and  the  truer  view  of  the  constitution  of 
things  which  knowledge  has  brought,  has  had  a  profound 
effect  upon  both  artistic  production  and  criticism.  The 
first  great  result  of  science  was  the  dispossession  of  the 
field  of  art  of  its  conventional  themes  and  the  substitu- 
tion of  realities  in  their  stead.  Painting  and  literature, 
the  representative  arts,  have  been  the  arts  especially 
affected.  The  weary  round  of  madonnas  and  saints  that 
the  church  required  of  its  pietistic  painters  gave  way  be- 
fore the  awakened  enthusiasm  of  men  for  the  common 
sights  of  the  town  and  woodland — "the  shapes  of  things, 
their  colors,  lights,  and  shades,  changes,  surprises." 

Fra  Filippo  Lippi  was  in  too  early  revolt  against  the 
religious  theme  to  establish  a  method,  but  still  in  his 
ideas  he  was  a  precursor  of  scientific  landscape  art. 
Browning  in  his  poem  on  this  artist  makes  the  painter 
monk  say  to  his  captors,  the  constables  of  Florence : 

Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 


90  THE  CHANGING  WIDER 

Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to?  What's  it  all  about? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised?  or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at? 

If  science  had  not  then  come  in  to  answer  this  question 
"What's  it  all  about?"  and  to  construct  a  new  and  vital 
mythology  of  nature,  we  might  still  be  admiring  St.  Law- 
rence toasting  on  the  irons,  or  Jerome  beating  with  a  stone 
his  poor  old  breast. 

In  literature  science  has  rendered  nugatory  for  modern 
service  the  whole  body  of  imaginative  myths  and  fictions. 
"Geology,"  says  Professor  Chamberlain,  "has  dispos- 
sessed Hades.  A  great  field  of  gloomy  imagery  is  gone. 
Dante's  'Inferno'  is  a  literary  phenomenon  that  will 
never  recur.  On  the  earth  the  whole  category  of  ghosts 
and  witches,  of  demons  and  dragons,  of  elves  and  fairies 
are  gone,  and  the  literary  function  they  subserved  is  de- 
stroyed. The  'Hamlet'  of  the  future  may  have  its  Hamlet, 
but  not  its  ghost.  Astronomy  has  swept  away  the  mystic 
heavens  and  destroyed  still  richer  and  brighter  fields  of 
imagery.  Aurora  and  Phoebus  and  the  crystalline  sphere 
are  gone.  The  curtain  of  the  heavens  has  been  folded  up 
and  laid  away  as  the  garments  of  our  children,  as  things 
loved  but  outgrown.  Olympus  is  gone.  Milton's  cosmos, 
equally  with  his  chaos,  is  only  a  picture  of  the  past. 
The  richest  imagery  of  all  past  literature  has  lost  its 
power  save  as  the  glory  of  the  past.  And  this  is  simply 
because  it  was  not  true."  Truth  is  indeed  the  key  word 
of  science.  To  this  everything  is  sacrificed.  But  while 
old  things  have  passed  away,  a  new  literary  heaven  and 
earth  are  being  created,  and  upon  the  new  materials 
imagination  proposes  to  work  with  the  old  potency  and 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  91 

charm  and  idealization.  Whitman  speaks  the  word  of 
the  modern  in  his  declaration  that  "the  true  use  for  imag- 
inative faculty  of  modern  times  is  to  give  ultimate  vivi- 
fication  to  facts,  to  science,  and  to  common  lives,  endow- 
ing them  with  the  glories  and  final  illustriousness  which 
belong  to  every  real  thing  and  to  real  things  only. 
Without  that  ultimate  vivification  which  the  poet  or 
other  artist  alone  can  give,  reality  would  seem  incom- 
plete, and  science,  democracy,  and  life  itself  finally  in 
vain."  If  facts  are  to  be  made  into  art,  the  one  factor 
necessary  is  the  sufficient  artist  to  harvest,  grind,  knead, 
and  bake  the  facts.  After  the  success  of  Emerson,  Ten- 
nyson, Browning,  and  Whitman  in  handling  scientific 
material  there  need  be  no  fear  of  default  in  imaginative 
creation  in  art.  It  may  be  that  the  actual  knowledge 
we  shall  gain  of  the  visible  universe  will  make  the  fic- 
tions of  fancy  comparatively  petty  and  jejune.  How 
sublime  are  the  heavens  to  Whitman !  Can  fancy  exceed 
this  simple  statement: 

I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems, 

And  all  I  see,  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher,  edge  but  the 
rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding, 

Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 

My  sun  has  his  sun,  and  round  him  obediently  wheels; 

He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit; 

And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside 
them. 

See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that, 

Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that. 

With  this  introduction  of  scientific  fact  into  the  produc- 
tive field,  the  intrusion  of  the  scientific  spirit  in  the  realm 
of  criticism  could  hardly  be  avoided.  Something  was 


92  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

needed  to  recover  criticism  from  its  "primrose  path  of 
dalliance"  and  to  give  it  serious  content.  For  the  criti- 
cism of  taste,  during  the  period  of  declining  aristocracy, 
had  become  mere  dilettantism,  mere  tasting  and  relishing 
and  objecting;  in  the  words  of  Professor  Freeman  "mere 
chatter  about  Shelley,"  or  in  the  phrase  of  a  still  severer 
castigator  of  cultured  methods,  Professor  Gildersleeve, 
"mere  sensibility  and  opulent  phraseology,"  "finical  fault- 
finding," or  "sympathetic  phrasemongery."  In  the  face 
of  such  incompetency  science,  with  its  inductive  method, 
its  conception  of  law,  had  no  difficulty  in  bringing  the 
artistic  world  to  a  new  point  of  view.  The  general  effect 
of  scientific  methods  and  ideas  upon  aesthetics  has  been 
to  advance  the  spirit  of  disinterestedness,  to  adopt  rela- 
tive for  absolute  standards,  to  emphasize  matter  instead 
of  manner,  and  to  introduce  notions  of  life  and  growth. 
"Before  all  else,"  says  Professor  Dowden,  an  exponent 
of  scientific  interpretation,  "the  effort  of  criticism  in  our 
time  has  been  to  see  things  as  they  are,  without  partiality, 
without  obtrusion  of  personal  liking  or  disliking,  without 
the  impertinence  of  blame  or  applause."  Perhaps  of 
greater  significance  has  been  the  recognition  of  law 
which  has  lifted  the  study  of  art  out  of  the  dominion  of 
elegant  trifling  and  allied  it  to  the  important  science  of 
life  and  mind.  Specifically,  three  schools  of  study  have 
arisen  under  the  domination  of  the  scientific  spirit:  first, 
the  investigators  who  undertake  the  "higher  criticism" 
of  texts  and  deal  narrowly  with  questions  of  fact ;  second, 
the  inductive  interpreters  who  work  broadly  with  the  fac- 
tors of  age,  race,  and  environment,  evolution  and  person- 
al force,  or  who  scrutinize  specific  compositions  to  deter- 
mine the  principles  of  interpretation ;  third,  the  "compara- 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  93 

live"  group,  who  conceive  literature  as  one  of  the 
provinces  of  universal  nature,  whose  aim  is  to  compare 
literature,  to  study  origins,  the  development  and  dif- 
fusion of  literary  themes  and  forms,  to  group  the  whole 
body  of  literary  facts  according  to  natural  lines  of  evolu- 
tion, and  to  write  the  history  of  man  in  so  far  as  that  his- 
tory is  reflected  in  his  imaginative  creations. 

II. 

Contemporary  with  the  seething  intellectual  movement 
which  brought  science  to  birth,  a  mightier  and  more  ex- 
tensive social  revolution  created  the  second  of  the  modern 
Titans,  democracy.  Democracy,  operating  both  as  a 
destructive  and  a  constructive  force,  was  destined  from 
the  first  effectually  to  destroy  the  monarchic  and  feudal 
position,  to  modify  or  supplement  the  ideas  and  methods 
of  science,  and  to  start  the  critical  world  toward  a  new 
point  of  view. 

The  general  significance  of  the  democratic  movement 
m  art  is  well  expressed  by  Edward  Carpenter  in  his 
poem  "Towards  Democracy:" 

Art  can  no  longer  "be  separated  from  life; 

The  old  canons  fail;  her  tutelage  completed,  she  becomes  equiva- 
lent to  Nature,  and  hangs  her  curtains  continuous  with 
the  clouda  and  waterfalls. 

The  form  of  man  emerges  in  all  objects,  baffling  the  old  classifi- 
cations and  definitions 

The  old  ties  giving  way  beneath  the  strain,  and  the  great  pent 
heart  heaving  as  though  it  would  break — 

At  the  sound  of  the  new  word  spoken, 

At  the  sound  of  the  word  "democracy." 

Wholly  indifferent  to  the  outcry  of  a  privileged  culture, 


94  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

democracy  has  brought  about  an  extension  of  the  bounds 
of  art  in  three  directions.  In  another  paper  I  have  spoken 
of  the  inclosure  in  the  field  of  art,  through  the  growth 
of  the  modern  spirit,  of  the  average  and  the  universal 
man.  Democratic  art  has  taken  for  its  set  purpose  to  un- 
fold the  beauties  inherent  in  the  people  and  to  declare  the 
glory  of  the  daily  walk  and  trade.  Two  features  of  the 
movement  which  have  bearing  upon  the  theory  of  art  re- 
main to  be  considered.  First,  the  distinction  drawn  by 
aristocratic  culture  between  the  fine  arts  and  the  in- 
dustrial arts,  is  losing  its  force.  The  removal  of  bound- 
ary lines  does  not  point  to  the  abasement  and  vulgariza- 
tion of  the  fine  arts,  but  signifies  rather  a  radical  and 
violent  reversal  in  aesthetic  theory.  The  grounds  of  art 
are  shifting  from  outward  formalism  to  some  principle 
relating  to  the  subjective  play  and  life.  The  artist  is  the 
maker,  the  free  creator,  who  molds  materials  of  many 
kinds  to  the  end  of  pleasure  and  self-realization.  When 
the  industrial  artist  works  under  the  conditions  of  free- 
dom and  self-realization,  he  ceases  to  be  a  slave  to  com- 
merce and  production,  is  entitled  to  the  name  of  the  fine 
artist  as  well  as  to  his  rewards  in  joyous  existence — the 
rewards  that  the  divine  artist  gets  in  his  own  creations. 
Not  a  perfect  object  but  a  perfected  man,  not  a  rigid 
definition  but  a  fluid  personality,  is  the  end  of  social- 
istic art. 

The  one  mind  that  has  penetrated  the  waste  bewilder- 
ment of  the  industrial  wrorld,  understood  its  tendencies, 
and  solved  the  problem  of  its  emancipation,  is  William 
Morris,  whose  career  as  a  poet,  master  workman  and 
socialist  has  been  determined  by  his  conversion  and  sub- 
sequent adherence  to  the  cause  of  democratic  art.  Morris' 


THE   CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  95 

great  life  work  has  not  been  his  poems  but  his  theory  of 
life.  The  redemption  of  the  toiling  masses  of  men  from 
themselves,  their  environment  and  their  actual  oppressors, 
by  a  life  expanding  toward  an  ideal  beauty  to  be  realized 
in  every  activity  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest — this  has 
been  the  end  for  which  the  poet  labored.  His  desire  to 
return  art  (by  which  he  meant  the  pleasure  of  life)  to 
the  people  explains  his  abandonment  of  his  early  lyrics 
and  epics,  his  espousal  of  socialism  as  a  means  of  redemp- 
tion, and  his  industrial  experiments  in  proof  of  the  easy 
alliance  of  beauty  and  life. 

The  propositions  of  industrial  aesthetics  may  be  briefly 
formulated  in  the  following  terms :  First,  beauty  and  art 
are  no  mere  accidents  of  human  life,  which  people  can 
take  or  leave  as  they  choose,  but  a  positive  necessity  of 
concrete  living — unless  men  are  content  to  exist  in  a  man- 
ner less  than  the  highest.  Second,  beauty  is  a  subjective 
effect  and  to  be  denned  in  terms  of  pleasure.  And  the 
highest  pleasure  is  that  which  arises  when  an  artist  is 
given  permission  to  set  forth  freely  in  forms  that  which 
his  mind  conceives.  "That  thing,"  said  Morris,  "which  I 
understand  by  real  art  is  the  expression  by  man  of  his 
pleasure  in  labor."  Third,  granting  the  pleasure  of  life 
to  be  the  essence  of  beauty,  how  can  beauty  be  univer- 
sally realized?  How  but  by  the  association  of  beauty 
and  that  which  is  commonest  and  nearest,  the  labor  of 
the  human  hand?  Labor  is  not  rightly  a  preparation  for 
living  but  a  consecrated  means  of  living.  Labor  becomes 
life  when  it  is  in  the  direction  of  a  man's  will.  Structure 
should  arise  out  of  the  soul.  Decoration  is  the  expression 
of  man's  pleasure  in  work,  the  play  of  the  hand  in  free 
activity.  The  pleasure  that  the  fine  artist  enjoys  returns 


96  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

to  the  people  when  the  people  in  their  turn  learn  to  ex- 
press themselves  in  their  daily  work  with  the  artist's 
freedom  and  to  the  end  of  self-realization.  Then  are  art 
and  labor  associated  to  the  consecration  of  each,  and 
modern  industrialism  is  emancipated  from  its  slavish  sub- 
jection to  a  machine  and  a  product.  The  popularization 
of  art  involves  the  two  factors,  the  return  of  creation  to 
that  which  man  must  perforce  make  and  the  return  of 
pleasure  to  that  which  man  must  perforce  use. 

The  association  of  art  and  labor  is  no  new  experience 
in  the  race's  history.  The  life  of  the  people  of  Japan 
furnishes  a  convenient  illustration  of  the  power  of  beauty 
to  enhance  the  pleasure  of  living.  Among  the  Japanese 
the  love  of  art  is  innate,  its  production  universal.  Labor 
of  every  kind,  even  to  the  tilling  of  a  tiny  plot  of  ground 
or  the  building  of  their  modest  homes,  is  done  as  much 
to  give  delight  in  contemplation  as  to  supply  the  gross 
needs  of  daily  existence.  The  common  articles  of  use 
bear  the  impress  of  artistic  fingers.  They  are  made  to 
strike  the  senses  by  their  beauty  as  the  first  effect  of  their 
use.  Care  is  taken  to  build  the  home  that  it  may  com- 
mand an  ample  view  of  the  country  side.  The  charm  of 
their  towns  lies  in  their  location  and  in  the  design  of 
street  and  garden  and  grove.  Nature  is  made  subser- 
vient to  their  aesthetic  impulses.  Their  appropriation 
of  the  world  is  not  mechanical  but  personal.  When  a 
tree  blossoms  and  flowers  bloom  an  ecstacy  is  felt  by  the 
farmer,  not  at  the  prospective  crop  but  at  the  immediate 
spectacle.  A  bird  is  held  in  regard  for  its  song  and  plum- 
age. A  mountain  is  the  symbol  of  the  celestial  paradise. 
They  have  exorcised  the  demon  of  hurry.  They  live  for 
their  ideals,  working  with  loving  care  upon  minutioe 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  07 

which  seem  to  the  Western  mind  incompatible  with  the 
serious  business  of  life,  the  making  fame,  wealth,  leis- 
ure, luxury.  The  result  is  that  the  poorest  endure  an 
otherwise  burdensome  lot  with  equanimity  because  of 
the  satisfaction  beauty  affords  the  finest  instincts.  As  a 
race  the  Japanese,  in  the  land  of  flowers,  are  simple  in 
their  modes  of  life,  quick  in  intelligence,  gentle  in  charac- 
ter, elastic  in  temperament,  juvenescent  in  feeling — a 
race  kept  ever  young  by  their  love  of  beauty. 

Among  European  peoples  there  was_a  time  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  when  art  and  labor  had  their  due  association. 
That  was  the  short,  brilliant  period  when  labor,  having 
won  its  freedom,  expended  its  energies  in  the  erection  of 
the  Gothic  cathedrals.  "In  the  twelfth  century,"  said 
William  Morris,  recounting  the  struggle  for  freedom, 
"the  actual  handicraftsmen  found  themselves  at  last  face 
to  face  with  the  development  of  the  earlier  associations 
of  freemen  which  were  the  survival  from  the  tribal  so- 
ciety of  Europe ;  in  the  teeth  of  these  exclusive  and  aristo- 
cratic municipalities  the  handicraftsmen  had  associated 
themselves  into  guilds  of  craft,  and  were  claiming  their 
freedom  from  legal  and  arbitrary  oppression  and  a  share 
in  the  government  of  the  towns ;  by  the  end  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  they  had  conquered  the  position  every- 
where, and  within  the  next  fifty  or  sixty  years  the  gover- 
nors of  the  free  towns  were  the  delegates  of  the  craft 
guilds  and  all  handicraft  was  included  in  their  associa- 
tions. This  period  of  their  triumph,  marked  amid  other 
events  by  the  battle  of  Courtrai,  where  the  chivalry  of 
France  turned  their  backs  in  flight  before  the  Flemish 
weavers,  was  the  period  during  which  Gothic  architec- 
ture reached  its  zenith."  The  glory  of  Gothic  architec- 


98  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

ture  lies  in  the  association  of  art  and  labor  in  construc- 
tion :  labor  was  free,  and  free  labor  issued  in  glorious  art. 

In  like  manner  the  struggle  of  the  modern  world  to 
gain  its  industrial  independence  is  leading  directly  toward 
artistic  constructiveness.  Every  gain  in  freedom  means 
a  step  forward  in  art.  The  issue  of  the  industrial  battle 
is  perhaps  the  greatest  in  history.  For  in  it  are  wrapped 
up  the  possibilities  of  a  universal  art.  It  is  not  possible 
that  the  interests  of  men  can  be  for  very  long  confined 
to  the  development  of  the  mechanical  energies  alone. 

The  principle  of  industrial  aesthetics,  and  conspicu- 
ously the  canon  of  the  pleasure  of  life,  are  fortified  and 
proved  by  the  result  of  scientific  investigation  into  the 
origin  of  the  artistic  impulse.  Evolutionary  aesthetics 
points  to  a  conception  of  art  as  the  outcome  and  embodi- 
ment of  the  freer  and  higher  activities  of  being.  By 
means  of  the  principle  of  play,  first  suggested  by  Schiller, 
but  for  which  in  this  connection  the  name  of  Herbert 
Spencer  stands,  the  origin  of  art  in  primitive  man  is  in- 
telligibly explained.  Briefly  stated,  the  knowledge  pre- 
vails that  art  had  its  origin  when  the  race  had  reached 
that  stage  of  culture  that  it  could  rise  above  mere  physi- 
cal necessity  and  gratify  the  instincts  and  feelings  just 
dawning  into  consciousness  by  engaging  in  free  "play." 
Play,  as  a  form  of  more  or  less  spontaneous  expression, 
implies  freedom  from  physical  needs,  an  excess  of  life 
functioning,  some  conscious  satisfaction,  and  a  certain 
power  of  abstraction.  When  play  came  to  be  consciously 
regulated  under  some  principle  of  order,  and  conducted 
to  the  satisfaction  of  higher  instincts  and  the  conveyance 
of  the  sense  of  spiritual  significance  in  material  things, 
the  long  process  of  art  began. 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  99 

Evolutionary  aesthetics  agrees  with  the  propositions 
of  industrial  aesthetics  in  regard  to  the  primal  principle 
of  the  importance  of  beauty  in  life.  In  play  primitive 
man,  engaging  in  an  ideal  exercise,  brought  into  ac- 
tivity, and  therefore  into  fuller  consciousness,  the  various 
ideal  faculties  of  his  being.  It  would  seem  that  art, 
considered  in  its  aspect  of  play,  is  the  goal  of  all  life.  As 
Schiller  says,  man  "only  plays  when  in  the  full  meaning 
of  the  term  he  is  man,  and  he  is  only  completely  man 
when  he  plays."  Evolutionary  advance  is  along  the  line 
of  the  selection  and  survival  of  beauty.  The  agreement 
of  the  theories  is  even  closer  in  respect  of  the  univer- 
sality of  the  artistic  instinct  and  the  corresponding  need 
of  every  human  being  to  become  a  free  creator  if  he  is 
to  live  the  life  designed  by  nature  and  advance  himself 
into  higher  forms  of  spiritual  godlikeness.  The  play 
of  evolutionary  aesthetics  is  the  pleasure  of  industrial 
aesthetics,  and  play  and  pleasure  are  just  so  much  of 
spiritual  significance  added  to  life  and  labor. 

A  third  aspect  of  the  general  question  appears  in  what 
may  be  called  educational  aesthetics,  meaning  by  this 
the  theory  of  beauty  that  concurs  with  the  principles  and 
methods  of  the  new  education.  The  new  education  dif- 
fers from  the  old  in  regard  to  purpose  and  means.  The 
education  of  the  past  has  been  in  a  great  measure  special 
and  aristocratic.  The  feudal  system  evolved  a  curriculum 
directed  to  the  shaping  of  a  gentleman,  a  dignified  and 
exalted  object,  and  the  gentleman  in  his  turn  took  care 
to  preserve  his  position  by  insuring  general  ignorance  on 
the  side  of  the  masses  and  a  special  culture  for  himself 
and  fellows.  The  means  employed  was  an  exclusive 
school  with  its  classical  studies  and  its  formal  discipline. 


100  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Though  social  conditions  changed  from  century  to  cen- 
tury, and  the  world  at  large  grew  slowly  democratic,  the 
school  remained  a  stronghold  of  the  nobility  and  retained 
its  feudal  forms  and  traditions.  Almost  to  the  present 
day  the  school  has  educated  its  pupils  intellectually  and 
prepared  them  to  live  in  an  aristocracy.  It  has  left  them 
selfish  and  destroyed  sympathy  and  the  spirit  of  good 
will.  So  far  as  this  education  was  aesthetic  it  followed 
the  classical  canon  of  culture,  the  canon  of  selection  and 
refinement.  To  strive  for  selection  and  refinement  in  an 
age  of  humanity,  to  separate  men  from  each  other  when 
the  conditions  of  social  happiness  require  association,  is 
to  leave  life  bare  and  barren.  An  education  formed  on 
the  lines  and  principles  of  a  Greek  temple  is  too  narrow, 
perfect,  and  exclusive  to  meet  the  wants  of  an  era  of  ex- 
pansion. Mutterings  of  discontent  have  recently  been 
heard  from  some  who  recognize  the  failure  of  the  dogma 
of  discipline  and  \vho  have  visions  of  the  future  of  good 
will.  A  prominent  educator,  Mr.  Hezekiah  Butterworth, 
has  recently  voiced  this  feeling  of  dissatisfaction:  "Our 
schools  have  followed  too  largely  the  monarchical  idea, 
and  too  little  the  plan  of  self-government,  which  repre- 
sents the  spirit  of  the  Republic.  We  look  out  on  the 
moral  conditions  of  the  people  with  alarm,  and  there 
comes  to  the  prophetic  souls  the  strong  conviction  that  we 
must  have  a  new  order  of  universal  education — an  educa- 
tion that  tends  to  character  on  the  principle  that  'power 
lies  in  the  ultimates' — to  make  a  new  generation  to  meet 
the  higher  demands  of  the  age."  The  age  demands 
character,  not  merely  knowledge  or  discipline.  It  de- 
mands a  full-rounded  personality,  capable  of  responding 
to  the  myriad  appeals  of  environment,  equipped  for  sen- 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  101 

sation,  feeling,  thought,  and  conduct.  It  demands  an 
education  that  shall  be  social  in  its  forms  and  altruistic 
in  its  motive.  The  failure  of  the  present  modes  is  further 
enforced  by  Mr.  Butterworth:  "Our  present  system  of 
elementary  education  does  not  rise  to  the  moral  require- 
ments of  the  age ;  it  stands  too  largely  for  the  develop- 
ment of  memory  for  the  purpose  of  mere  money-making, 
to  the  neglect  of  the  nobler  spiritual  faculties.  It  too 
often  leaves  out  the  cultivation  of  the  heart  and  the  train- 
ing of  the  hand,  the  quickening  of  conscience  and  the 
growth  of  the  moral  perception.  Such  a  system  is  not 
education  in  any  large  sense ;  it  is  what  Pestalozzi  called 
'mere  instruction.'  The  education  that  makes  character, 
individual 'and  national,  begins  with  the  heart,  the  con- 
science, and  the  imagination."  Another  censure  of  like 
import  has  been  rendered  by  Josephine  Locke:  "Our 
education  has  been  too  mathematical  and  too  analytic; 
it  has  trained  the  individual  for  self-preservation  at  the 
expense  of  his  relationship  to  his  fellows.  It  has  blinded 
him  to  co-operation  with  the  great  law  of  evolution :  vi- 
carious suffering,  self-sacrifice.  How  has  it  done  this? 
By  presenting  the  studies  isolatedly  for  their  own  sakes, 
and  by  teaching  each  subject  in  its  immediate  details,  in 
its  Gradgrind  facts,  by  the  omission  of  the  aesthetic 
element,  by  the  exaltation  of  culture  for  culture's  sake, 
by  the  offering  of  stimulants  to  excellence  and  by  giving 
the  disciplinary  and  formal  studies  precedence  over  the 
nourishing  and  informal."  There  is  need,  therefore,  in 
modern  culture  of  securing  some  effective  means  of 
cherishing  the  ideal  within  the  soul.  We  need  a  new 
standard  of  values.  The  educational  reforms  in  contem- 
plation provide  for  the  application  of  the  principle  of 


102  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

self-activity  in  all  lines  of  development.  This  involves  the 
substitution  of  character  for  knowledge,  an  inward  striving 
for  an  outward  accomplishment,  an  experience  for  a 
derivation,  the  exercise  of  the  whole  social  personality 
for  mere  intellectual  display.  As  means  to  secure  the 
spiritualization  of  education  the  advocates  of  the  new 
theory  offer  creative  or  artistic  studies  in  the  place  of 
formal  or  disciplinary  ones.  The  child  learns  by  creat- 
ing. The  power  by  which  educational  activity  is  carried 
on  is  imagination.  This  is  the  central  faculty  upon  the 
development  of  which  depends  the  efficiency  of  the  facul- 
ties of  observation  and  judgment,  the  exercise  of  the 
reason,  the  activity  of  the  will,  and  the  responsiveness 
of  the  moral  sympathies.  The  studies  calculated  to  dis- 
cipline and  nourish  the  imagination  are  the  arts.  Art  is 
liberation.  It  is  instinct,  feeling,  spontaneity.  It  is  the 
full  activity  of  the  self.  Good  will  lies  at  the  heart.  Its 
characteristics  are  freedom,  self-activity,  and  love. 

Whether  the  ideal  of  the  new  education  can  be  realized 
remains  to  be  seen.  Surely  the  child,  modeling  a  form 
in  the  pliant  clay,  affords  a  happier  and  more  hopeful 
sight  than  the  child  learning  by  rote  a  printed  page.  As 
the  new  movement  is  the  outcome  of  democracy,  we  may 
expect  its  advance  with  the  increase  of  the  democratic 
spirit.  The  aesthetical  principle  involved  is  the  same  as 
that  presented  by  science  and  the  new  industrialism,  the 
principle  of  play.  May  it  not  be  that  through  the  opera- 
tion of  evolution,  the  struggles  of  industrialism  to  se- 
cure the  freedom  of  the  workers,  and  the  efforts  of  the 
school  to  reach  the  hearts  and  souls  of  its  pupils  a  new 
aesthetic  man  will  rise  to  grace  the  later  ages  of  the 
world? 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  103 

Besides  establishing  the  canon  of  pleasure  for  the  cre- 
ative artist,  democracy  has  given  formulation  to  a  second 
though  allied  principle  of  aesthetics  for  the  use  of  the 
critic:  the  canon  of  correspondency  or  the  canon  of  the 
characteristic.  With  the  development  of  the  modern 
spirit  questions  respecting  the  nature  of  beauty  have 
again  arisen.  Does  beauty  lie  in  the  right  relation  of  the 
parts  of  a  composition  or  in  inherency  and  wholes?  Is 
it  something  artificial  and  conventional,  or  something 
attached  to  vital  functioning?  Is  it  conserved  by  obedi- 
ence to  the  aristocratic  canon  of  order,  or  to  the  demo- 
cratic canon  of  the  characteristic?  "My  opinion,"  said 
Walt  Whitman,  "has  long  been  that  for  New  World  ser- 
vice our  ideas  of  beauty  need  to  be  radically  changed  and 
made  anew  for  to-day's  New  World  purposes  and  .finer 
standards."  Sooner  or  later  the  New  World,  for  pur- 
poses of  its  own,  will  construct  a  complete  system  of 
aesthetics  from  the  point  of  view  of  character  or  in- 
herency. The  feeling  for  beauty  may  be  said,  indeed, 
to  be  wide  as  life  itself.  Some  stages  of  this  expansion 
of  interest  may  be  seen  in  the  never-ending  revolt  against 
the  restrictions  imposed  by  the  classical  canon  of  order, 
with  the  result  of  inaugurating  at  certain  times  vast  and 
far-reaching  revolutionary  movements  in  the  direction 
of  the  romantic.  Theoretical  stages  of  this  change  are 
discoverable  in  the  growth  of  the  term  "beauty"  in  point 
of  its  inclusiveness.  Up  to  the  eighteenth  century  the 
term  referred  almost  exclusively  to  that  which  was  appro- 
priately designed  and  ordered.  But  nature  exhibited 
aspects  harsh  and  terrible  and  uncouth,  which  neverthe- 
less had  interest  to  men.  To  explain  human  sympathy 
with  that  which  was  not  well  ordered,  the  theory  of  the 


104  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

sublime  was  developed,  at  first  without  relation  to  the 
theory  of  beauty,  but  later  falling  within  its  scope.  At 
the  same  time  the  theory  of  the  ugly  was  broached,  the 
ugly  being  regarded  as  the  negative  of  the  beautiful. 
But  recent  aesthetics  understands  that  the  ugly,  by  be- 
coming characteristic,  may  be  made  a  subordinate  ele- 
ment in  the  effects  of  beauty,  and  so  the  theory  is  ab- 
sorbed in  the  larger  conception. 

From  a  wider  historical  and  philosophical  point  of  view 
the  stages  of  advance  may  be  indicated  by  reference  to 
the  development  of  an  important  principle  of  thought. 
The  Greeks  were  held  at  the  stage  of  naturalistic  monism, 
and,  finding  unity  in  external  nature  and  in  form,  the 
aesthetic  canon  of  order  in  variety  sufficed  the  needs  of 
their  philosophy.  The  Middle  Ages,  under  the  influence 
of  Christianity,  advanced  to  the  stage  of  romantic  dual- 
ism, a  vast  gulf  being  fixed  between  an  infinite  ideal  of 
perfection  and  any  possible  attainment  in  a  finite  world. 
The  philosophy  so  deepened  its  knowledge  with  respect 
to  the  universe  within  that  the  mind  learned  to  rely  upon 
a  symbol  for  the  expression  of  its  thought,  without  re- 
gard to  the  formal  quality  of  the  means.  Thus  far  no 
adequate  synthesis  had  been  reached.  The  Greeks  found 
unity  in  nature  through  defective  idealism.  The  Middle 
Ages  arrived  at  unity  in  the  infinite  through  an  imperfect 
sense  of  the  finite.  The  last  and  modern  stage  of  spiritual 
monism  represents  on  the  one  hand  the  closure  of  the 
gulf  between  form  and  content,  under  the  combined 
forces  of  idealistic  philosophy  and  monistic  science, 
which  together  reveal  the  immanent  reason  in  both  the 
world  without  and  the  world  within,  and  on  the  other 
hand  the  attainment  of  a  new  synthesis  of  ideal  in  form. 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  105 

A  form  idealized  has  the  unity  neither  in  the  form  nor 
in  the  idea,  but  in  an  idealized  form  that  is  different  from 
either  form  or  idea;  it  is  form  made  abstract;  it  is  idea 
made  concrete.  The  racial  expression  of  this  philo- 
sophic synthesis  is  discoverable  in  the  growing  sense  of 
the  solidarity  of  society  which  is  manifestly  increasing 
through  the  extension  of  individual  importance.  The 
artistic  outcome  of  the  process  is  an  art  that  does  not  aim 
primarily  at  a  beautiful  form,  but  at  the  most  adequate 
expression  of  some  particular  content.  The  correspond- 
ing critical  theory  is  one  that  scrutinizes  form  for  its 
meaning  and  idea  for  adequate  expression.  Philosophic 
monism,  social  democracy,  characteristic  art,  and  the 
corresponding  aesthetics  are  parts  of  one  stupendous 
social  movement. 

According  to  the  canon  of  the  characteristic,  beauty 
lies  in  significance.  Beauty  comes  into  being  when  a 
significant  content  is  duly  expressed.  "Which  is  the  more 
beautiful,"  asked  Millet,  "a  straight  tree  or  a  crooked 
tree?"  And  he  answered  forthwith:  "Whichever  is  the 
most  in  place.  The  beautiful  is  that  which  is  in  place." 
This  describes  the  music  of  Wagner,  and  of  other  ro- 
mantic composers ;  the  beauty  of  whose  music  does  not 
rest  in  tone  or  relation  of  tone,  but  in  the  adequacy 
of  expression  to  meaning.  The  form  is  beautiful  in  so 
far  as  it  has  been  absorbed  in  mind  and  feeling.  As  the 
middle  term  between  form  and  content  is  the  artist  who 
gives  the  idea  to  the  form,  as  no  content  can  get  into  a 
form  without  first  being  in  the  man,  art  has  come  to  be 
defined  as  "the  utterance  of  all  that  life  contains."  But 
life  must  be  sincere.  Beauty  abides  in  creation  on  the 
artist's  part,  in  re-creation  on  the  observer's  part.  The 


100  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

admission  of  the  personal  element  carries  with  it  the 
justification  of  artistic  egotism  and  even  lawlessness ; 
the  real  law,  however,  is  not  outer  but  inner.  The  ugly 
takes  a  place  in  the  synthesis  if  it  can  be  flushed  with 
meaning.  The  grotesque  gargoyles  of  a  Gothic  cathedral 
are  directly  related  to  the  creed  which  the  cathedral  ex- 
hibits ;  they  have  the  same  right  there  as  the  figures  of 
angels.  The  way  is  opened  for  the  play  of  suggestions 
and  associations.  Formal  art  is  displayed  to  the  senses 
and  to  the  logical  intellect ;  characteristic  art  quickens  the 
imagination  and  throws  the  observer  back  upon  his  own 
power  to  deal  artistically  with  realities.  It  has  multiple 
standards,  inasmuch  as  the  possible  relations  between 
form  and  idea  are  infinite.  One  perfection  in  art  does 
not  destroy  any  other  perfection  any  more  than  one  eye- 
sight countervails  another  eyesight.  The  classical  standards 
are  not  destroyed,  provided  the  idea  is  of  such  a  nature  as 
to  require  the  abstraction  of  form  for  its  presentation. 
Further,  characteristic  art  is  often  indeterminate  in  value. 
It  is  beautiful  to  one  who  can  make  it  so.  More  than 
ordinary  demands  are  made,  therefore,  upon  the  critic 
who  would  realize  the  unity  of  art  that  depends  upon 
meaning.  Schlegel  makes  this  clear  in  discussing  the 
higher  unity  of  a  play:  "The  separate  parts  of  a  work 
of  art  are  all  subservient  to  one  common  aim — namely, 
to  produce  a  joint  impression  on  the  mind.  Here,  there- 
fore, the  unity  lies  in  a  single  sphere,  in  the  feeling  or  in 
the  reference  to  ideas.  This  is  all  one,  for  the  feeling  as 
far  as  it  is  not  merely  sensual  and  passive,  is  our  sense 
or  organ  for  the  Infinite  which  forms  itself  into  ideas  for 
us.  Far,  therefore,  from  rejecting  the  law  of  a  perfect 
unity  in  tragedy,  as  unnecessary,  I  require  a  deeper, 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  107 

more   intrinsic,   and   more   mysterious   unity   than   that 
with  which  most  critics  are  satisfied." 


III. 


Further  considerations  of  the  canon  of  pleasure,  play, 
and  the  characteristic  will  lead  to  a  constructive  defini- 
tion of  democratic  criticism. 

The  test  of  good  art  in  a  democracy  must  be  its  ca- 
pacity to  satisfy  some  universal  requirement  in  human 
nature.  Democratic  art  is  to  conquer  in  the  plane  of  the 
common  and  general.  What,  then,  is  the  paramount 
human  wish,  the  realization  of  which  brings  happiness, 
the  denial  of  which  causes  despair?  I  recall  a  drawing 
by  William  Blake,  entitled  "I  Want,"  which  represents 
a  man  standing  at  the  foot  of  a  ladder  that  reaches  from 
the  earth  to  the  moon,  up  which  he  longs  to  climb.  Is  it 
the  moon  we  all  want  ?  anything  so  far  distant  ?  Is  it  not 
something  nearer  at  hand,  as  near  as  hands  and  feet,  life 
itself?  I  do  not  mean  that  we  all  seek  to  escape  death, 
but  that  we  yearn  here  and  now  for  full  abounding  ener- 
gized being.  As  the  poet  says: 

"Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 
0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want. 

We  want  the  fulfillment  of  the  promise  of  every 
faculty.  We  want  the  greatest  possible  health  of  body, 
activity  of  mind,  glow  of  emotions,  play  of  imagination, 
force  of  will,  vitality  of  character.  We  want  the  thou- 
sand possible  streams  of  thought  and  will-impulse  set 
freely  flowing  within  us.  Whence  comes  the  satisfac- 


108  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

tion  of  the  want  we  all  know  to  be  universal  ?  Where  but 
from  the  source  and  fount  of  life,  from  art  in  which  life 
has  abundantly  entered — life  conceived  after  the  heart's 
desire,  life  made  not  to  the  end  of  good  taste  alone,  or 
of  knowledge  alone,  but  involving  the  whole  of  nature  to 
the  end  of  universal  progress  ?  Said  Goethe  in  the  midst 
of  the  waste  and  bewilderment  of  his  time:  "Art  still 
has  truth ;  take  refuge  there."  Art  in  its  entirety  is  the 
expression  of  man's  being  in  its  entirety. 

A  perfect  response  to  art  requires  the  activity  in  the 
observer  of  those  faculties  of  being  to  which  the  artist 
has  made  his  appeal.  He  who  is  unwilling  or  incapable 
of  yielding  the  sympathetic  response  fails  in  his  inter- 
pretation just  to  the  extent  of  his  denial.  The  best 
student  of  art  is  the  one  who  is  alive  at  most  points,  who 
can  accept  the  challenge  of  the  artist  to  the  contest  of 
thought  and  feeling,  who  in  his  own  being  is  as  active  as 
the  artist  himself. 

Before  venturing  upon  a  constructive  definition  we 
may  inquire  what  is  wanting  in  the  methods  of  "good 
taste"  and  of  scientific  interpretation,  when  considered 
from  the  point  of  view  of  life's  freedom  and  power  and 
pleasure  in  play. 

The  criticism  of  taste  is  manifestly  inadequate  to  our 
modern  democratic  needs.  It  was  a  method  that  came 
into  vogue  during  periods  of  aristocracy,  when  men  were 
more  concerned  about  the  manner  of  their  speech  and 
dress  than  the  matter  of  their  thought  and  character.  It 
is  a  method  essentially  narrow,  exclusive,  the  special 
instrument  of  a  literary  coterie  and  professional  class.  It 
is  not,  and  cannot  ever  be  universal.  Democracy  calls 
less  for  the  fine  phrase,  the  selected  gracious  ornament, 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  109 

more  for  the  large  view,  the  inner  character,  the  grand 
personality  that  betokens  universal  life  itself.  The  criti- 
cism of  taste  has,  however,  one  important  feature:  it 
contains  ideas  of  the  best,  it  has  standards  of  the  right. 
Even  a  democracy  wants  to  know  the  best  things  thought 
and  said  in  the  world.  The  criticism  that  does  not  give 
rank  to  works  of  art  fails  in  its  important  mission. 
When  art  comes  to  the  judgment  of  the  people,  upon 
what  grounds  will  rank  be  given  ?  On  the  ground  of  the 
"grand  manner?"  or  on  the  ground  of  the  "grand"  per- 
sonality ?  Evidently  works  of  art  will  be  adjusted  accord- 
ing to  their  capacity  to  satisfy  and  develop  personality. 
One  of  the  wisest  utterances  ever  made  in  criticism  is  the 
dictum  of  Wordsworth  concerning  poetry:  "If  it  con- 
tributes to  the  pleasures  of  sense,  that  is  one  degree;  if 
to  the  higher  pleasures,  its  rank  rises  as  the  whole  per- 
sonality of  the  reader  is  called  into  action."  Such  a  stand- 
ard is  inner  and  not  outer.  Then  books  that  read  well  in 
parlors  will  pass  with  difficulty  in  the  open  air,  in  streets 
and  workshops.  With  the  standard  of  "good  taste"  a 
democracy  has  little  to  do. 

The  scientific  process  has  the  advantage  of  being  more 
universal.  At  least  it  is  dependent  only  upon  ability  to 
handle  the  method,  and  not  upon  culture  or  refinement. 
It  may  be  employed  by  any  one  who  has  intelligence;  it 
has  been  used  by  those  who  have  only  patience  and  in- 
dustry. The  objection  to  induction  is  that  in  remaining 
objective  scientific  criticism  omits  from  its  results  fully 
one-half,  often  the  whole,  of  the  artistic  effect,  the  sub- 
jective— that  is,  the  response  which  the  observer  in  his 
own  creative  capacity  gives  to  the  call  of  the  artist.  Pure 
induction  does  not  allow  for  personal  absorption  or  pro- 


110  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

vide  for  individual  associations.  It  is  afraid  of  enthu- 
siasms. It  denies  any  necessity  of  vital  response.  So 
long  as  men  remain  moral  and  sentient,  there  can  be  no 
disinterested  endeavor  to  find  the  truth  of  art.  In  scientific 
criticism  an  attitude  too  exclusively  intellectual  is  taken 
toward  that  which  is  a  product  of  the  whole  man  as  a 
thinking,  emotional,  imaginative,  and  moral  being: 
"Love,  hope,  fear,  faith,"  says  Browning,  "make  hu- 
manity." It  is  as  Edward  Carpenter  said  to  the  moon : 

I  know  very  well  that  when  the  astronomers  look  at  you  through 
their  telescopes  they  see  only  an  aged  and  wrinkled  body; 

But  though  they  measure  your  wrinkles  never  so  carefully,  they 
do  not  see  you  personal  and  close, 

As  you  disclosed  yourself  among  the  chimney  tops  each  night 
to  the  eyes  of  a  child, 

When  you  thought  no  one  was  looking. 

Research,  it  seems,  is  too  analytic;  detaching  form 
from  idea  and  idea  from  form,  it  destroys  the  synthesis 
of  reality  and  life.  Science  has  imperfect  standards, 
weeds  and  flowers  having  the  same  value  under  its 
scrutiny.  While  immeasurably  valuable  as  a  means,  the 
scientific  understanding  of  art  can  never  become  the  end 
of  knowledge.  As  was  finely  said  by  Professor  Blackie: 
"Not  from  any  fingering  induction  of  external  details,  but 
from  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty,  cometh  all  true 
understanding  in  matters  of  beauty.  All  high  art  comes 
directly  from  within,  and  its  laws  are  not  to  be  proved  by 
any  external  collection  of  facts  but  by  the  emphatic  as- 
sertion of  the  divine  vitality  from  which  they  proceed." 

To  close  with  a  definition  of  criticism  from  the  stand- 
point of  democratic  aesthetics  it  may  be  asserted  ( i )  the 
effects  of  beauty  depend  upon  the  presentation  of  that 


THE  CRITICAL  ATTITUDE  111 

which  stimulates,  within  the  limits  of  pleasurable  action, 
any  or  all  of  the  faculties  of  being,  the  senses,  the  intellect, 
the  emotions,  the  imagination,  and  the  will.  (2)  Criti- 
cism is  the  statement  of  an  effect,  or  the  wording  of  the 
result  of  the  vital  contact  of  a  work  of  art  upon  an  ener- 
gizing personality. 

Democratic  criticism  includes  in  its  scope  both  the  ob- 
jective and  the  subjective.  It  takes  account  of  the  me- 
dium in  space  and  time  and  also  of  the  subjective  re- 
sponse. It  requires  personal  absorption.  It  permits  the 
fullest  play  of  those  vital  associations  which  are  differ- 
ent in  every  person.  The  end  of  its  work  is  not  "good 
taste,"  not  knowledge,  but  life  and  character. 


AN   INSTANCE   OF   CONVERSION:     TOLSTOI. 

Leo  Tolstoi,  with  respect  to  his  personal  history,  may 
be  said  to  describe  a  series  of  contraries.  Thus  he  is  a 
Russian  opposed  to  Muscoviteism,  a  revolutionist  who 
offers  no  resistance  to  evil,  a  follower  of  Christ  who 
abjures  Christianity,  an  artist  who  mocks  at  beauty,  an 
author  who  disbelieves  in  copyright,  a  noble  who 
preaches  brotherhood,  a  man  of  over  seventy  years  who 
says  he  is  but  thirty-two. 

The  explanation  of  this  strange  and  complex  history  is 
found  in  the  fact  of  his  spiritual  conversion  in  1873. 
Before  that  date  he  was  a  Russian  count,  an  atheist,  a 
nihilist,  an  artist  of  the  aristocratic  school.  But,  turning 
from  his  past,  and  accepting  Christianity  in  the  terms  of 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  it  was  not  long  before  he 
left  the  palace  for  the  fields  and  began  to  write  accord- 
ing to  a  new  definition  of  art.  In  Christianity  and 
what  may  be  called  Peasantism  his  whole  life  is  now 
contained.  Christ  gives  him  the  principle  of  the  new 
life,  the  peasant  shows  how  it  may  be  accomplished. 

In  conversation  with  Henry  Fisher,  Tolstoi  recently 
gave  the  following  account  of  his  "new  birth":  "It's 
all  so  lifelike,  I  might  have  experienced  it  yesterday: 
A  beautiful  Spring  morning,  God's  birds  singing  and 
His  insects  humming  in  the  grass.  My  horse,  tired  of 
the  great  burden  which  I,  brutelike,  imposed  upon  his 
back,  stood  still  under  the  wooden  image  of  the  Christ 
at  a  cross-road.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CONVERSION :  TOLSTOI  113 

tion  of  the  scene  that  I  indulged  the  beast,  allowing 
the  reins  to  rest  upon  his  neck  while  he  rummaged  for 
young  grass  and  leaves.  By  and  by  a  group  of  moujik 
pilgrims  intruded  upon  my  resting  place  and  without 
knowing  what  I  was  doing  I  listened  to  their  prayers. 
It  was  the  most  wholesome  medicine  ever  administered 
to  a  doubting  soul.  The  simplicity  and  ignorance  of 
the  poor  moujik,  the  confiding  moujik,  the  ever  hopeful 
moujik,  touched  my  heart.  I  came  from  under  that  cross 
a  new  man.  When  I  led  my  beast  of  burden — God's 
creature,  like  myself — away,  I  knew  that  the  kingdom 
of  God  is  within  us  and  that  the  literal  interpretation  of 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  should  be  the  crowning  rule 
of  a  Christian's  life."  From  this  it  appears  that  a  peasant 
was  the  agent  of  Tolstoi's  redemption.  And  Peasantism, 
working  on  in  the  heart  of  the  man,  disrupting  his 
old  ideas,  carried  forward  to  completion  the  transfor- 
mation that  began  with  a  spiritual  conversion.  To  pre- 
sent the  whole  history  of  Tolstoi  it  would  be  necessary, 
therefore,  to  consider  the  play  and  interaction  of  these 
two  forces.  It  is  possible,  however,  to  separate  them 
in  thought  and  to  trace  the  line  of  Peasantism  inde- 
pendently. 

Specifically,  Peasantism  displayed  its  effect  in  Tol- 
stoi in  two  ways.  It  determined  the  spirit  of  his  phi- 
losophy of  life  and  formulated  in  particular  one  of 
his  few  practical  precepts  for  conduct,  and  it  furnished 
him  a  standard  of  judgment  with  reference  to  which 
he  criticised  the  current  forms  of  religion,  government 
and  art. 

Consider  the  temper  of  his  practical  philosophy.  By 
way  of  negation  he  has  said,  "Offend  no  one,"  "Take 


114  THE  CHAN7GING  ORDEE 

no  oath,"  "Resist  not  evil."  For  personal  commands 
he  wrote,  "Be  pure,"  "Love  mankind."  Then,  with 
the  full  force  of  Peasantism  upon  him,  he  said,  "Do  thou 
labor."  This  precept  dates  from  the  writing  of  "Anna 
Karenina,"  which  appeared  in  1875.  From  the  time  that 
Levine  saved  himself  from  pessimism  by  dwelling  a 
day  in  the  fields  with  the  mowers,  Tolstoi  has  proclaimed 
the  doctrine  of  labor.  Then  take  into  view  his  social  crit- 
icisms. The  ideas  advanced  to  condemn  the  present  or- 
der are  those  of  an  average  respectable,  intelligent 
peasant.  It  is  as  if  a  peasant  spoke.  Is  it  not,  indeed, 
a  peasant's  face  that  confronts  us  in  his  pictures?  It 
seems  that  a  man,  born  out  of  his  due  place  in  the 
palace,  found  in  the  fields  at  length  the  place  to  which  he 
was  destined  by  his  very  nativity — a  place  in  nature  and 
among  realities. 

To  make  this  latter  critical  attitude  altogether  clear, 
one  feature  only  of  his  Peasantism  may  be  selected  for 
exposition,  his  ideas  on  art. 

A  brief  historical  survey  will  be  sufficient  to  clear 
the  ground  for  Tolstoi's  definition  of  art.  For  about 
two  centuries  now  art  has  been  defined  in  terms  of 
beauty.  The  theory  of  art  as  beauty  arose  among  the 
wealthy  and  cultured  classes  of  Europe  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  its  scientific  formulation  being  due  to  a  German 
metaphysician,  Baumgarten,  who  flourished  about  1750. 
From  that  time  to  this  the  field  of  art  has  been  narrowing 
and  refining,  the  artist  withdrawing  more  and  more  from 
life,  and  within  his  special  realm  developing  technique 
and  abstracting  form,  until  what  is  called  the  fine  arts 
alone  receive  recognition,  and  among  fine  artists  only 
the  most  dextrous  to  manipulate  form  win  the  plaudit 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CONVERSION :  TOLSTOI  115 

of  the  cultured  world.  For  two  centuries,  in  short,  art 
has  been  developing  along  aristocratic  lines.  Criticism, 
likewise,  has  been  called  to  serve  the  requirements  of 
a  society  devoted  to  pleasure.  The  decision  as  to  what 
is  good  art  and  what  not  has  been  undertaken  by  the 
"finest  nurtured."  The  natural  result  of  the  refining 
process  has  been  the  creation  of  an  art  from  the  enjoy- 
ment of  which  the  great  masses  of  men  are  excluded. 

Now  Tolstoi  is  one  of  a  small  company  of  men  who 
perceive  the  necessity  of  a  new  order  of  art.  The 
spirit  of  the  new  day  is  universality.  A  culture  that 
does  not  carry  with  it  the  whole  people  is  doomed  to 
failure.  And  this  universality  is  to  be  gained  not  through 
the  extension  of  aristocratic  culture  among  the  people, 
not  through  the  education  of  the  masses  in  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  classes,  but  through  a  new  philosophy  and  a 
new  criticism  that  shall  meet  the  demands  of  a  democratic 
society  and  result  in  an  art  that  shall  be  in  its  own  nature 
universal  in  character.  I  do  not  see  that  democracy 
means  either  leveling  up  or  leveling  down;  it  means 
life  on  wholly  new  terms.  The  old  art  will  be  destroyed, 
root  and  branch,  and  a  new  art  rise  that  shall  start  from 
the  broad  basis  of  the  people's  will.  For  the  did  art 
is  based  on  privilege ;  the  new  art  will  not  be  simply  the 
extension  of  privilege,  but  the  utter  rejection  of  privi- 
lege. Whitman  gives  what  he  well  calls  "the  sign  of 
democracy"  in  the  following  sentence:  "I  will  accept 
nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their  counterpart  of  on 
the  same  terms." 

In  harmony  with  this  thought,  Tolstoi  seeks  to  start 
a  new  definition  of  art:  "To  evoke  in  oneself  a  feeling 
one  has  once  experienced,  and  having  evoked  it  in  one- 


116  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

self,  then  by  means  of  movements,  lines,  colors,  sounds 
or  forms,  expressed  in  words,  so  to  transmit  that  feel- 
ing that  others  may  experience  the  same  feeling — this 
is  the  activity  of  art."  "Art  is  a  human  activity,  consisting 
in  this,  that  one  man  consciously,  by  means  of  certain 
external  signs,  hands  on  to  others  feelings  he  has  lived 
through,  and  that  other  people  are  infected  by  these  feel- 
ings, and  also  experience  them."  Or,  in  other  words, 
"Art  is  the  infection  by  one  man  of  another  with  the  feel- 
ings experienced  by  the  infector." 

This  may  be  called  the  definition  of  Peasantism.  Ob- 
serve its  grounds.  It  puts  aside  the  conception  of  beauty 
altogether  and  defines  art  in  terms  of  experience.  That 
is,  it  ceases  to  consider  art  as  a  means  of  pleasure,  but 
as  one  of  the  conditions  of  human  life.  Art,  then,  is  one 
of  the  two  organs  of  human  progress.  By  words  we  ex- 
change thoughts ;  by  art  we  interchange  feelings.  Thus 
considered,  art  is  primarily  a  means  of  union  among  men, 
indispensable  for  the  life  and  progress  toward  well- 
being  of  individuals  and  of  humanity.  The  idea  of  excel- 
lence in  such  an  art  is  not  exclusiveness  of  feeling  acces- 
sible to  some,  but  universality,  not  obscurity  and  complex- 
ity, but  clearness  and  simplicity.  Its  motives  will  be 
sociological,  that  is,  moral  and  altruistic.  It  will  draw 
from  the  primal  sources  of  religion. 

The  value  of  contemporary  art,  when  judged  from 
the  ideal  of  universality,  seems  small.  The  experiences 
of  the  ruling  classes,  as  they  have  come  to  record  in  art, 
amount  to  hardly  more  than  three — the  feeling  of  pride, 
the  feeling  of  sexual  desire  and  the  feeling  of  the 
weariness  of  life.  Upon  these  themes  poetry  especially 
has  played  endless  changes.  But  these  are  by  no  means 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CONVERSION :  TOLSTOI  117 

universal  feelings — they  are  those  of  an  idle  pleasure- 
loving  aristocracy.  Before  such  art  the  peasant  stands 
bewildered.  He  has  no  attachment  to  it.  All  his  own 
rich  life  is  unreflected  there.  And  lest  it  be  thought  that 
the  experiences  of  the  peasant  are  barren  and  uninter- 
esting, Tolstoi  insists  that  the  world  of  labor  is  rich  in 
subject  materials  for  art.  He  points  to  the  endlessly 
varied  forms  of  labor;  the  dangers  connected  with  that 
labor  on  sea  and  land ;  the  laborer's  migrations,  his  inter- 
course with  his  employers,  overseers  and  companions, 
and  with  men  of  other  religions  and  other  nationalities ; 
his  struggles  with  nature  and  with  wild  animals,  his 
association  with  the  domestic  animals ;  his  work  in  the 
forests,  the  plains,  the  fields,  the  gardens,  the  orchards; 
his  intercourse  with  his  wife  and  children,  not  only  as 
with  people  near  and  dear  to  him,  but  as  with  co- 
workers  and  helpers  in  labor,  replacing  him  in  time  of 
need ;  his  concern  in  all  economic  questions,  not  as  matters 
of  display  or  discussion,  but  as  problems  of  life  for  him- 
self and  family;  his  pride  and  self-suppression,  and 
service  to  others;  his  pleasure  or  refreshment;  and, 
above  all,  his  devotion  to  religion. 

But  to  set  off  the  value  of  one  life  against  that  of 
another  is  no  part  of  Tolstoi's  definition.  The  judgment 
of  a  peasant  is  no  more  to  be  respected  than  the  judgment 
of  the  "finest  nurtured."  What  the  new  theory  shows  is 
the  shifting  of  the  aesthetic  ground  from  what  is  special 
to  what  is  universal,  from  what  is  form  to  what  is  ex- 
perience. 

To  illustrate  Tolstoi's  definition  by  reference  to  con- 
crete instances  of  popular  art,  is  not  easy.  Tolstoi's 
own  illustrations  seem  trivial  in  comparison  with  the 


113  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

great  works  of  the  past  that  may  be  mentioned  to  prove 
the  aristocratic  refinement  of  beauty.  And,  of  course, 
the  simple  explanation  is  that  a  mature  illustration  of 
popular  art  does  not  exist.  The  rise  of  the  people  is  a 
phenomenon  of  the  present  century.  Whereas  for 
centuries  the  field  of  art  has  been  held  by  the  artists  of 
aristocracy.  Today  the  professional  artists  are  every- 
where on  the  side  of  tradition.  And  criticism  for  the  most 
part  upholds  the  standards  of  culture.  Outside  of  Millet's 
portraiture  of  the  peasant  laborer  and  Whitman's  poems 
exploiting  the  average  man,  one  does  not  know  where  to 
go  for  a  large  illustration  of  an  art  that  springs  from 
popular  feeling.  One  painting  at  the  Wiorld's  Fair 
may,  however,  be  mentioned.  This  was  a  picture  record- 
ing an  almost  universal  experience,  the  breaking  of 
home  ties,  and  few  stood  before  that  picture  whose 
eyes  did  not  wet  with  tears.  As  might  be  expected,  this 
painting  is  pointed  to  by  the  professional  artist  as  an 
instance  of  bad  art,  yet  it  was  very  generally  applauded 
by  the  people.  Art,  says  Tolstoi,  is  an  infection — that 
picture  is  infectious. 

From  many  signs  it  appears  that  this  is  the  moment 
of  transition.  All  the  features  that  accompany  tran- 
sition are  exhibited  in  the  works  of  Tolstoi  himself 
as  well  as  in  the  works  of  kindred  spirits,  John 
Ruskin  and  William  Morris.  These  men,  with  respect 
to  "fine  writing,"  illustrate  almost  the  best  that  can  be 
done  in  the  creation  of  works  springing  from  the  sense 
of  beauty.  But  catching  glimpses  of  the  new  thought 
and  becoming  advocates  of  a  new  definition  of  art,  they 
gave  up  art  on  the  old  terms  of  exclusion  and  labored 
in  the  interests  of  the  people.  This  change  of  face  is 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CONVERSION :  TOLSTOI  119 

not  due  to  "perverted  vision,"  as  their  critics  would  have 
us  believe,  but  to  the  new  revelation  they  have  caught 
from  the  mountain  tops  of  their  observation.  With  this 
change  of  attitude,  moreover,  the  inconsistencies  with 
which  these  authors  are  charged  could  hardly  be  avoided. 
One  may  not  wish  to  defend  inconsistency,  but  in  their 
case  it  is  not  difficult  to  explain.  A  river  that  meets 
the  incoming  tides  from  the  sea  is  uncertain  during  the 
hour  of  transition  whether  to  resist  its  own  traditions 
or  strive  to  overcome  the  new  tendency.  Would  it  not 
be  strange  if,  even  when  in  the  grasp  of  the  sea,  it  did  not 
have  memories  of  its  flow  through  the  upper  meadows 
and  be  taken  with  a  sudden  ardor  to  reassert  its  past? 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION :    WILLIAM  MORRIS. 

I. 

The  socialists  of  Hammersmith  were  accustomed  in 
former  days  to  meet  weekly  at  Kelmscott  House,  the 
London  home  of  Mr.  Morris  on  the  Upper  Mall.  An  old 
carriage  house  served  as  a  place  of  gathering.  Frequent- 
ly at  these  conferences,  Mr.  Morris  would  act  as  chair- 
man. Sometimes  he  would  speak.  One  night,  he  had 
spoken  with  more  than  usual  sadness  upon  the  hope  of 
his  life,  and  in  closing  he  uttered  these  words: 
"Neighbors,  it  is  peace  that  we  need  that  we  may  live 
and  work  in  hope  and  joy."  Leaving  the  hall,  I  stood 
with  a  friend  for  a  half  hour  beneath  the  elm  trees,  look- 
ing out  over  the  river.  The  tide  was  flowing  quietly  to 
the  sea.  A  light  mist  obscured  the  opposite  shore.  The 
river,  the  passing  boats,  the  bridge,  the  city  beyond, 
were  all  toned  down  to  the  common  grayness.  Neither 
of  us  spoke  a  word.  The  peace  of  the  evening  seemed 
to  mingle  with  the  words  we  had  heard  and  give  direction 
to  our  thoughts.  Then,  near  at  hand,  we  heard  the  voice 
of  the  poet  saying : 

"So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 

If  ye  will  read  aright  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss, 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where   tossed   about   all   hearts   of   men  must  be." 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  121 

II. 

William  Morris,  master-workman,  poet  and  socialist, 
was  born  March  24,  1834,  at  Walthamstow,  a  village  in 
Essex  not  far  from  London.  He  was  the  eldest-born  of 
a  family  of  nine.  His  father,  of  Welsh  ancestry,  was  an 
enterprising  and  successful  business  man  of  the  city. 
At  Walthamstow,  William  went  to  a  school  kept  by  Dr. 
Greig,  a  Scotchman,  who  described  his  pupil  as  a  rollick- 
ing boy,  full  of  the  vigor  of  life.  At  this  period  he  was 
said  to  have  been  extraordinarily  active  with  his  hands, 
an  omniverous  reader,  but  not  taking  kindly  to  discipline. 
After  the  death  of  Mr.  Morris  in  1848,  the  family  moved 
to  Marlborough,  where  William  attended  the  college  and 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  art  and  archaeology.  He 
went  "steeple-chasing,"  made  rubbings  of  memorial 
brasses,  and  became  an  adept  in  the  Gothic.  In  1852, 
he  entered  Oxford  at  Exeter  College,  matriculating  for 
Holy  Orders.  At  that  time,  after  long  quiescent  conser- 
vatism, the  University  was  in  the  midst  of  a  strenuous 
mediaeval  revival,  which  was  fostered  on  the  one  hand 
by  the  Tractarian  College  of  Newman,  and  on  the  other 
by  the  artistic  guild  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  Brothers. 
Under  the  influence  of  Rossetti  and  other  leaders  of  the 
mediaeval  reaction,  Morris,  with  his  college  chum,  E. 
Burne- Jones,  became  a  convert  to  romance.  He  passed 
his  college  days  in  comparative  idleness,  yielding  himself 
to  the  enchantments  of  Oxford— -hat  Oxford  that  ever 
summons  its  devotees  to  mark  the  lustre  of  ancient  days. 
Wholly  aristocratic  in  his  tastes  and  sympathies,  un- 
troubled by  any  rumors  of  the  inhuman  conditions  of 
the  Great  Black  Country  just  then  becoming  rife,  he  lived 


122  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

in  entire  isolation,  accepting  from  his  environment  only 
the  pleasurable  contact  of  chosen  companions.  One  en- 
thusiasm only  counted  towards  his  later  evolution — an 
interest  in  Ruskin,  which  was  aroused  on  reading  "The 
Stones  of  Venice,"  and  maintained  throughout  the  poet's 
life  till  his  tribute  was  paid  in  printing  from  the  Keim- 
scott  Press,  Ruskin's  essay  "On  the  Nature  of  the  Gothic." 
In  1856,  Morris  and  a  few  other  poets  and  painters 
started  a  monthly  magazine,  called  The  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Magazine.  Like  its  prototype,  The  Germ,  of  1850, 
the  organ  of  the  pre-Raphaelites,  it  had  an  existence  of 
a  year.  To  this  magazine  Rossetti  contributed  some  of 
his  finest  poems,  including  "The  Burden  of  Ninevah" 
and  a  revised  form  of  "The  Blessed  Damozel."  Morris, 
the  financial  sponsor  of  the  magazine,  and  its  most  active 
contributor,  wrote  for  successive  numbers  a  series  of 
mediaeval  romances,  having  such  titles  as  "A  Dream," 
"Gertha's  Lovers,"  "The  Hollow  Land,"  and  "Golden 
Wings."  Each  story,  as  might  be  imagined  from  the 
titles,  is  conducted  with  an  artist's  love  of  color  and 
with  a  poet's  imagery,  and  all  are  steeped  in  the  spirit 
of  a  time  "long  ago." 

"Long  ago,"  one  begins,  "there  was  a  land,  never  mind  where, 
or  when,  a  fair  country  and  good  to  live  in,  rich  with  wealth  of 
golden  corn,  beautiful  with  many  woods,  watered  by  great  rivers 
and  pleasant  trickling  streams;  moreover,  one  extremity  of  it  was 
bounded  by  the  washing  of  the  purple  waves,  and  the  other  by  the 
solemn  watchfulness  of  the  purple  mountains." 

There  are  a  few  poems  in  the  volume  also  by  Morris. 
"Summer  Dawn"  is  as  beautiful  as  anything  he  after- 
ward wrote,  and  is  touched  by  that  solemn  grayness  that 
colors  so  many  of  his  poems. 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  123 

"Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 
Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars, 
The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips, 
Faint  and  grey,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen,  betwixt  the 

closed  bars 

That  are  patiently  waiting  there   for  the  dawn: 
Patient  and   colorless,  though  Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn, 
The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises;  the  roses  are  dun; 
Through  the  long  twilight,  they  pray  for  the  dawn, 
Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 

Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 

Over  the  tender  bow'd  locks  of  the  corn." 

During1  a  memorable  journey  afoot  through  France, 
in  company  with  Burne- Jones,  while  the  spell  of  mighty 
cathedrals  was  upon  him,  he  decided  to  abandon  his  ca- 
reer in  the  church  and  devote  his  life  to  the  service  of 
art.  Leaving  Oxford,  his  next  step  was  to  enter  the 
office  of  Mr.  G.  E.  Street,  a  London  architect,  famed  for 
his  Gothic  restorations,  and  as  the  builder  of  that  com- 
posite structure  in  the  Strand  known  as  the  Law  Courts. 
Here  he  worked  for  nearly  a  year.  Then,  compelled  by 
Rossetti  who  demanded  that  all  who  could  not  be  buyers 
of  pictures  should  become  painters  of  pictures,  he  di- 
verged to  the  study  of  painting  and  artistic  decoration, 
continuing  his  study  of  the  Gothic  he  had  learned  to 
love  so  well,  doubtless  building  in  fancy  a  house  with 
strange  towers  and  quaint  gables  for  each  lady  and  lover 
that  thronged  the  avenues  of  his  mind,  without  losing, 
however,  his  love  of  architecture  which  he  always  re- 


124  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

garded  as  a  co-operative  art — an  art  not  merely  of  build- 
ing but  of  furnishing  and  decorations.* 

In  1857,  he  was  associated  with  Jones,  Rossetti,  Prinsep, 
and  others  in  painting  upon  the  walls  of  the  Oxford 
Union  Debating  Hall,  the  frescoes,  now  but  dimly  visi- 
ble, illustrating  the  Arthuriar  Romance.  The  subject 
treated  by  Morris  was  Sir  Palomides'  jealousy  of  Sir 
Tristram  and  the  fair  Isulte,  a  story  that  seemed  to  at- 
tract him  by  reason  of  its  sadness.  His  first  volume  of 
poems,  "The  Defence  of  Guenevere  and  Other  Poems," 
was  published  in  1858,  under  the  interest  awakened  by 
Tennyson's  and  Southey's  studies  of  the  Arthurian 
period.  Such  delicacy  of  sentiment,  such  sense  of 
color,  such  realization  of  an  evanished  people,  had  not 
been  known  before  in  England.  In  comparison  with 
Tennyson,  Morris  is  a  veritable  child  of  the  middle  ages. 
He  writes  of  Arthur  as  a  contemporary,  seemingly  hav- 
ing strayed  by  accident  into  the  land  of  Victoria,  viewing 
it  as  might  an  antiquarian;  while  Tennyson  is  essentially 
a  subject  of  his  queen,  and  pays  tribute  to"that  old  king"  as 
a  troubadour  alien  or  much  belated.  Morris  at  this  period 
might  have  said  with  Lamb :  "Hang  posterity,  I'm  going 
to  write  for  antiquity."  The  influence  of  Rossetti  and  of 
Browning  is  distinctly  marked  in  this  early  volume. 
The  general  effect  is  that  of  the  painter,  but  "The  Judg- 
ment of  God,"  that  brings  before  us  the  actual  scene 
with  startling  vividness,  reads  quite  like  one  of  Brown- 

"A  true  architectural  work  is  a  building  duly  provided  with 
all  necessary  furniture,  decorated  with  all  due  ornament,  accord- 
ing to  the  use,  quality,  and  dignity  of  the  building,  from  mere 
mouldings  or  abstract  lines,  to  the  great  epical  works  of  sculpture 
and  painting,  which,  except  as  decoration  of  the  nobler  forms  oi 
such  buildings,  can  not  be  produced  at  all." 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  125 

ing's  dramatic  lyrics.  There  are  poems  also  that  in 
melody  and  imagery  are  reminiscent  of  Poe.  But  withal 
it  bore  the  unmistakable  marks  of  original  genius.  Of 
it  Swinburne  spoke  the  final  word:  "Upon  no  piece  of 
work  in  the  world  was  the  impress  of  native  character 
ever  more  distinctly  stamped,  more  deeply  branded.  It 
needed  no  exceptional  acuteness  of  ear  or  eye  to  see  or 
hear  that  this  poet  held  of  none,  stole  from  none,  clung 
to  none,  as  tenant,  or  as  beggar,  or  as  thief."  It  was  then 
prophesied  that  Morris  would  prove  a  "poet  whom  poets 
will  love." 

In  1860  Morris,  having  married  and  desirous  of  a 
home,  built  the  famous  Red  House  on  the  outskirts  of 
London  in  the  midst  of  an  orchard,  and  served  his 
apprenticeship  to  handicraft  by  designing  and  executing 
the  interior  decoration  and  furniture  of  the  house.  So 
that  by  the  next  year  he  was  ready  to  join  with  Madox 
Brown,  E.  Burne- Jones,  Rossetti,  Philip  Webb  and  a  few 
others,  all  artists  with  the  exception  of  Faulkner,  in 
forming  an  art  firm  with  the  intent  of  designing  and 
manufacturing  stained-glass  windows,  mosaics,  wall- 
papers, artistic  furniture  and  general  household  decora- 
tions. The  distinguishing  mark  of  these  artists  was  their 
conviction  of  the  honor  of  labor  and  duty  of  thorough- 
ness. They  were  gifted  with  a  love  of  order  and  grace 
and  filled  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  need  of  beauty  in 
human  life.  To  join  art  to  labor,  to  add  pleasure  to  things 
of  common  use,  was  the  purpose  of  this  company.  After 
varying  fortune,  but  not  until  after  they  had  initiated  a 
genuine  revolution  in  the  industrial  arts,  the  firm  dis- 
solved in  1875,  the  work  to  be  conducted  henceforth 
under  Morris's  own  management.  One  result  of  the  ex- 


126  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

periment,  not  particularly  counted  on,  was  the  educa- 
tion Morris  himself  received  through  coming  in  contact 
with  certain  stern  realities  of  living.  The  plan  of  monas- 
tic brotherhood,  conceived  and  zealously  labored  for  in 
the  old  college  days,  was  forever  abandoned.  From  this 
time  a  "socialism,"  innate  in  his  nature,  became  promi- 
nent. 

The  manufactory  that  Morris  finally  established  was 
located  at  Merton  Abbey.  It  is  a  village  on  the  Thames, 
far  enough  from  London  that  nature  still  lingers  in  its 
environs,  and  the  birds  find  room  for  joyful  song.  The 
very  name  of  the  place  is  suggestive  of  a  mediaeval 
workshop.  In  the  twelfth  century  Gilbert  Norman, 
Sheriff  of  Surrey,  built  here  a  monastery  for  canons  of 
the  order  of  Saint  Austin.  It  was  patronized  by  Stephen 
and  Matilda  and  endowed  with  rich  gifts.  In  1236  there 
was  held  within  its  walls,  a  parliament  which  enacted  the 
"Statutes  of  Merton,"  wherein  the  English  nobles  replied 
to  the  prelates :  "We  will  not  change  the  laws  of  En- 
gland." On  a  soil  thus  early  dedicated  to  liberty,  this 
experiment  in  free  labor  was  conducted. 

The  place  was  chosen  from  a  special  sense  of  fitness. 
I  remember,  now  many  years  after  the  time  of  my  visits, 
the  exact  look  of  the  scene.  An  old  mansion,  half  draped 
with  trees  and  hidden  in  shrubbery  stood  by  the  road- 
side at  the  edge  of  the  village.  Behind  the  house,  under 
the  great  elms  were  grouped  the  low  and  unpretentious 
buildings  of  the  factory.  From  the  neighboring  gardens 
came  an  odor  of  grass  and  roses.  The  air  was  tumultu- 
ous with  the  songs  of  blackbirds  and  thrushes.  Crows 
cawed  in  the  far  elms.  At  one  side,  the  slow  water? 
of  the  Wandel,  gathered  here  into  a  lily-covered  pond, 


A  TYPE  OP  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  127 

was  coaxing  a  mill  wheel,  green  with  moss,  lazily  to  turn. 
Willows  grew  along  the  banks  of  the  stream  and  bent 
down  over  it;  willows  and  sky  were  reflected  in  the  sur- 
face of  the  water.  Over  all  there  was  a  sense  of  sunny 
summer.  The  scene  told  of  sympathy  and  loving  har- 
mony with  nature.  There  was  no  air  of  the  factory, 
no  clang  of  machinery,  no  dust,  no  haste  or  distraction, 
Within  the  buildings  men  and  women  were  at  work  weav- 
ing at  looms,  dyeing  and  printing  cloths,  and  putting 
together  windows. 

In  the  designing  room  was  Mr.  Morris  himself,  half- 
finished  sketches,  some  bold  cartoons  from  the  hand  of 
Burne- Jones,  were  scattered  about  the  room.  Morris 
was  dressed  as  usual  in  a  plain  suit  of  blue  serge  and 
flannel.  He  was  short  of  stature,  but  robust,  and  full  of 
the  most  restless  energy.  His  dress  and  rolling  walk  gave 
him  the  aspect  of  a  sailor.  The  features  of  his  face  were 
large  and  rugged,  but  full-blooded,  luminous,  and  well 
modeled.  A  kindly  poet's  expression  was  given  by 
the  filmed  and  rather  inexpressive  eyes  and  by  the  mobile 
and  delicately  shaped  mouth  beneath  the  grey  beard. 
His  head  was  covered  with  curly  grey  hair,  which  he 
brushed  back  from  his  forehead  with  his  hand  as  he 
leaned  to  his  work.  One  felt  in  the  presence  of  a  vital 
personality,  who  was  in  love  with  labor  and  all  the  life 
of  the  world.  I  was  told  of  his  extraordinarily  busy  and 
laborius  life.  Upon  all  the  arts  of  the  hand  he  had  work- 
ed with  utmost  patience  and  devotion.  He  had  taught 
himself  wood  engraving  by  cutting  the  blocks  himself 
andmanuscriptillumination  by  copying  the  pages  of  an- 
cient books.  He  had  learned  carving,  weaving,  tapestry 
work  and  embroidery.  He  had  studied  the  art  of  dyeing, 


123  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  making  of  stained  glass,  tiles,  and  cloth  fabrics. 
These  arts  he  practised  with  an  amount  of  labor  almost 
incredible.  When  asked  how  he  accomplished  so  much 
he  answered  it  was  easy ;  he  wrote  at  night  and  worked 
at  his  shops  by  day.  And,  while  he  practised,  his  mes- 
sage to  the  world  was  announced  with  equal  ardor. 

In  speech,  when  aroused  by  his  theme,  Morris  was 
rapid,  nervous,  and  often  tumultuous  and  uncontrolled. 
For  thirty  years  he  claimed  for  art  a  place  in  common 
labor.  He  plead  first  of  all  for  simplicity  of  life.  From 
simplicity  of  life  would  rise  up  a  longing  for  beauty 
and  artistic  creation,  which  can  only  be  satisfied  by  mak- 
ing beauty  and  art  a  very  part  of  the  labor  of  every  man 
who  produces.  Labor,  he  argued,  is  not  a  preparation 
for  living,  it  is  our  very  life.  And  the  rewards  of 
labor?  The  reward  of  creation;  the  wages,  Morris  said, 
which  God  gets.  Art  comes  back  most  to  the  artist. 
Everything  made  by  man  has  a  form,  and  that  form  is 
either  beautiful  or  ugly.  The  one  gives  pleasure ;  the 
other  is  a  weariness.  Decoration  is  simply  the  expres- 
sion of  man's  pleasure  in  successful  labor ;  it  is  the  color 
of  the  work.  The  true  incentive  to  happy  and  useful 
labor  is,  then,  the  pleasure  in  the  work  itself.  And  the 
price  of  pleasure?  Simply  permission  to  the  workman 
to  put  his  own  intelligence  and  enthusiasm  into  whatever 
he  is  fashioning;  simply  permission  to  make  his  hands 
set  forth  his  mind  and  soul.  Only  then  is  labor  sancti- 
fied, because  then  it  is  in  the  direction  of  a  man's  life. 
A  structure  should  rise  out  of  the  soul.  Order,  or  mean- 
ing, is  the  moral  quality  of  structure.  Make  matter  ex- 
press a  meaning,  and  the  worker  becomes  a  moral  master. 
We  must,  therefore,  travel  back  from  the  machine  to 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  129 

the  human.  For  men  must  "prove  their  living  souls 
against  the  notion  that  they  live  in  you  or  under  you, 
O  Wheels."  The  machine,  the  great  achievement  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  which  promised  to  relieve  our  drudg- 
ery— has  it  or  has  it  not  increased  our  burdens?  The 
wonderful  inventions  which  in  the  hands  of  far-seeing 
men  might  be  used  to  minimize  the  labor  of  the  many 
seem  only  used  for  the  enrichment  of  their  owners. 

With  some  such  logic,  Morris  reverted  in  his  concep- 
tions of  an  ideal  future,  to  the  traditions  of  labor  in 
operation  in  the  middle  ages,  when  the  human  mean- 
ing wrapped  up  in  the  term  "hand-made"  was  well  known, 
when  the  handicraftsman  took  pride  in  his  work: 

"Let  us  think  of  the  mighty  and  lovely  architecture  of  me- 
diaeval Europe,  of  the  buildings  raised  before  Commerce  had  put 
the  coping  stone  on  the  edifice  of  tyranny  by  the  discovery  that 
fancy,  imagination,  sentiment,  the  joy  of  creation  and  the  hope 
of  fair  fame  are  marketable  articles  too  precious  to  be  allowed  to 
men  who  have  not  the  money  to  buy  them,  to  mere  handicraftsmen 
and  day  laborers.  Let  us  remember  there  was  a  time  when  men 
had  pleasure  in  their  daily  work,  but  yet  as  to  other  matters  hoped 
for  light  and  freedom,  even  as  they  do  now." 

When  today  the  traveler,  by  some  happy  chance,  comes 
upon  the  work  of  that  early  day, — some  homely  cottage 
or  richer  abbey-church,  which  seem  to  grow  out  of  the 
familiar  nature  amid  which  they  stand, — he  is  touched 
by  their  human  happy  significance.  The  people  shared 
then  in  art.  However  unequal  men  were  in  their  social 
relations  as  king  and  common  folk,  the  art  of  that  day 
was  free  and  democratic.  By  his  labor,  many  a  man, 
enslaved  in  body,  was  free  in  spirit.  "I  know  that  in  those 
days  life  was  often  rough  and  evil  enough,  beset  by  vio- 


130  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

lence,  superstition,  ignorance,  slavery ;  yet  sorely  as  poor 
folks  needed  a  solace,  they  did  not  altogether  lack  one, 
and  their  solace  was  pleasure  in  their  work."  Under 
these  conditions,  art  grew  until  the  material  world  seemed 
bound  beneath  the  spirit's  rule.  Then  the  Gothic  ages 
came  to  their  end.  The  life  of  the  Renaissance  made  all 
things  new.  And,  strangely,  while  in  the  new  days  the 
difference  between  king  and  subject  has  been  destroyed, 
art  has  withdrawn  from  the  people  and  become  the 
birthright  of  the  few. 

For  himself,  Morris  repeated  the  -conditions  out  of 
which  pure  art  alone  can  spring.  He  was  a  man  before 
he  was  a  poet.  He  cultivated  body,  heart  and  brain, 
choosing  to  live  before  he  wrote.  Out  of  his  life  sprang 
pure  art.  All  of  his  work  was  done  with  evident  ease 
and  pleasure.  By  his  own  example,  Morris  called  the 
world  back  to  the  human,  back  to  that  labor,  which  is  the 
highest  life. 

Meanwhile  Morris  was  writing  rapidly  and  well. 
"The  Earthly  Paradise"  appeared  ten  years  after  "The 
Defence  of  Guenevere."  "The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason" 
was  begun  as  one  of  the  series  of  the  epic,  but  was  pub- 
lished separately  in  1867.  During  one  of  his  holiday 
rambles  in  company  with  E.  Magnusson  of  Cambridge, 
he  had  visited  Iceland,  where  he  was  heralded  as  a 
"scald" — and  he  looked  the  character — and  together  the 
two  translated  several  Icelandic  sagas.  In  1878  ap- 
peared the  "Story  of  Sigurd  the  Volsung"  and  some 
Northern  love  stories.  Translations  of  the  Aeneids  and 
Odyssey,  some  Northern  stories,  lectures  on  art  and  so- 
cialism, a  volume  of  "Poems  by  the  Way,"  and  "Pilgrims 
of  Hope,"  originally  contributed  to  socialistic  publica- 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  131 

tions,  "The  Dream  of  John  Ball,"  an  interlude  "The 
Tables  Turned,"  "News  from  Nowhere,"  and  some  so- 
cialistic pamphlets  constitute  his  later  writings. 

III. 

With  his  works  before  us  we  ask,  What  was  the  key 
to  the  poet's  life?  Wnat  was  the  in^m  spring  .f  his 
action  ? 

The  first  volumes  from  the  poet's  pen  were  wrought  in 
the  spirit  of  the  rniddle  ages.  They  reflect  all  that  was 
most  vital  in  the  mediaeval  period,  its  romance  and 
splendor,  its  gold  and  glittering  steel,  its  fantastic  pas- 
sions and  unreality,  likewise  its  wonders,  its  doubts, 
its  desires,  its  haunting  sadness. 

"The  Defence  of  Guenevere"  was  dedicated  "To  My 
Friend,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti."  The  genius  of  the 
poet  and  the  painter  is  very  much  akin.  Both  were 
appointed  from  youth  to  the  service  of  art  and  song. 
Their  genius  was  alike  nurtured  in  a  mediaeval  household 
where  romantic  themes  were  familiar,  and  heroic  fancies 
welcome.  Early  the  two  became  staunch  and  sympathetic 
friends.  It  is  an  Oxford  tradition  that  both  were  enam- 
ored of  the  beautiful  lady,  the  "Beata  mea  Domina"  of 
"The  Defence  of  Guenevere." 

"All  men  that  see  her  any  time, 
I  charge  you  straightly  in  this  rhyme 
What  and  wherever  you  may  be — 
Beata  mea  Domina  t 

"To  kneel  before  her;  as  for  me, 
I  choke  and  grow  quite  faint  to  see 
My  lady  moving  graciously, 
Beata  mea  Domina!" 


132  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

This  is  the  wife  to  whom  "The  Earthly  Paradise" 
is  dedicated,  and  who,  with  her  daughter  May,  appears  in 
Rossetti's  paintings,  his  type  of  sensuous  and  spiritual 
beauty.  Then  for  a  number  of  years,  Rossetti  was  a 
constant  guest  of  the  Morris  family  at  the  Kelmscott 
Manor  House  on  the  Upper  Thames,  a  glimpse  of  which 
is  seen  in  Rossetti's  "Water  Willow"  painting.  Their  in- 
terests were  nearly  identical.  Their  outlook  upon  life 
was  quite  the  same.  Each  had  withdrawn  to  a  world  of 
lovely  forms  and  sweet  sounds  and  dreams  apart  from 
modern  thought  and  struggle.  Each  drew  his  inspiration 
from  the  beauty  of  old-world  story.  "Arthur's  Tomb" 
was  drawn  to  illustrate  Morris's  poem,  "The  Blue  Closet," 
and  "The  Tune  of  Seven  Towers"  was  written  to  accom- 
pany Rossetti's  pictures.  They  are  both  sensuous,  both 
colorists  of  a  high  order.  Rossetti  is  excelled  by  none 
since  Titian,  in  the  peculiar  triumph  of  his  touch  in  color. 
Morris  is  gifted  with  a  painter's  vision ;  he  is  moved  to 
delight  by  the  color  and  form  of  outward  things.  Ros- 
setti's lavish  greens  and  golds  and  scarlets  are  reflected 
from  the  other's  poems,  which  seem  ever  bathed  in  light 
as  from  painted  abbey-windows.  The  one  is  a  poet- 
painter;  the  other  a  painter-poet.  In  the  work  of  each 
there  is  an  element  of  sadness.  Those  pathetic  faces, 
charged  with  dreams,  so  characteristic  of  the  paintings, 
look  out  from  the  pages  of  the  poems.  Even  the  colors  of 
the  first  decorative  fabrics  of  the  Morris  manufactory, 
those  harmonies  in  olive  and  saffron,  bronze,  rusty-red, 
grey-green  and  blue  were  conceived  for  the  most  part  in 
a  mood  of  sadness. 

What  was  it,  indeed,  that  touched  the  brush  of  all  those 
brother  painters  ?  The  faces  they  drew  are  haunted  with 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  133 

not  unpleasant  but  still  pensive  dreams.  The  pictures  of 
Burne- Jones  have  a  wistful,  sorrowful  old-world  beauty. 
His  Four  Seasons  might  be  used  to  illustrate  the  several 
months  of  "The  Earthly  Paradise."  Beautiful  but  sad 
are  Spring  and  Summer.  Autumn  stands  wearily  by  the 
side  of  a  lake,  looking  pensively  across  the  lillies.  Chill 
Winter,  in  life's  November,  is  clad  in  hooded  cloak, 
warming  her  hands  by  the  fire,  and  bending  down  over 
a  book  of  prayer,  waiting  for  the  end:  "Who  shall  say 
if  I  were  dead,  What  should  be  remembered  ?" 

The  haunting  presence  is  Death.  Morris  dwelt  con- 
stantly upon  the  theme  of  Death,  the  lapse  of  time,  the  ap- 
proach of  age.  To  the  carriers  of  the  Golden  Fleece  the 
sirens  sing,  "Come  to  the  land  where  none  grows  old." 
The  mariners  of  "The  Earthly  Paradise"  sail  to  the  west 
for  a  paradise  of  rest  and  immortality  where  age  cannot 
enter  or  death  destroy.  Death  accompanies  the  young 
men  and  maidens,  even  though  they  sing  the  carols  of 
the  morn.  Death  whispers  in  the  wind  that  showers  down 
the  blossoms  in  the  orchard.  On  the  very  dawn  of  May, 
the  merry  month  when  the  Lord  of  Love  goes  by,  the  poet 
holds  his  breath  and  shudders  at  the  sight  of  Eld  and 
Death.  He  cannot  make  death  a  little  thing.  His  heart 
is  oft  too  weary  to  struggle  against  doubt  and  thought. 
Seldom  for  his  words  can  we  forget  our  tears. 

Morris  has  often  been  compared  with  Chaucer.  "The 
Earthly  Paradise"  was  confessedly  conceived  under  the 
inspiration  of  "my  master  Chaucer."  And  earlier,  in 
Jason,  he  yearns  for 

"Some  portion  of  that  mastery 
That  from  the  rose-hung  lanes  of  woody  Kent 
Through   these  five  hundred  years   such   songs  have  sent 


134  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

To  us,  who,  meshed  within  this  smoky  net 
Of  unrejoicing  labor,  love  them  yet." 

And  truly  with  the  master  the  pupil  may  be  matched  in 
faculty  of  portraiture  and  story  telling,  and  in  melody  of 
perfect  verse.  For  Morris  had  use  of  every  poetic  means 
at  Chaucer's  command,  and  did  "bring  before  men's 
eyes  the  image  of  the  thing"  his  "heart  is  filled  with." 
But  again  they  differ  as  sunshine  and  shadow.  There 
was  for  Chaucer  no  month  but  May.  His  pages  are 
steeped  in  light  and  dew.  He  has  the  candor  of  the  morn- 
ing, is  jovial,  sane  and  strong.  Morris  chooses  rather  to 
string  his  lyre  on  some  sad  evening  of  the  Autumn  tide. 
He  lacks  the  elder  poet's  serenity  of  soul.  Morris  sang 
the  woe  of  Psyche,  but  her  joy  on  entering  her  immor- 
tality of  bliss,  he  could  not  sing : — 

"My  lyre  is  but  attuned  to  tears  and  pain. 
How  shall  I  sing  the  never  ending  day?" 

If  a  mediaeval  parallel  to  "The  Earthly  Paradise"  be 
sought,  it  will  be  found  in  the  "Decameron"  rather  than 
in  the  "Canterbury  Tales" — in  that  account  of  men  and 
ladies,  who  fled  from  their  plague  stricken  neighbors  to 
tell  their  idle  tales  in  forgetfulness.  And  yet,  while  Mor- 
ris is  supreme  as  an  epic  narrator,  objective  and  imper- 
sonal, and  tells  a  story,  unlike  Spenser  and  Tennyson, 
but  like  Boccaccio,  Chaucer,  and  Walter  Scott,  for  the 
story's  sake,  he  is  in  a  manner  subjective,  and  his  works 
are  permeated,  perhaps  unconsciously  at  times,  by  the 
modern  social  lament  that  the  world  is  "out  of  joint." 
"The  Earthly  Paradise"  is  not  merely  a  collection  of  tales ; 
it  is  somehow  Morris's  solution  of  the  problem  of  our 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  135 

human  life.     For  each  tale  ends  the  same, — "needs  must 
end  the  same  and  we  men  call  it  death." 

"So  if  I  tell  the  story  of  the  past 
Let  it  be  worth  some  little  rest,  I  pray — 
A  little  slumber  ere  the  end  of  day." 

His  growing  seriousness  of  purpose  is  still  more  mani- 
fest in  the  story  of  Sigurd  and  the  Niblungs,  which  in 
its  splendid  epical  strength  occupies  a  medial  place  be- 
tween the  early  idyllic  poems  and  the  later  socialistic 
prose.  The  epic  narrative  is  here  determined  by  a  central 
thread  of  purpose.  From  the  many  loosely  related  and 
unmeaning  incidents  of  the  traditional  saga,  our  bard 
has  selected  those  only  which  should  complete  the  one 
essential  tale  of  greed  and  wrong  and  redemptive  love. 

Richard  Wagner,  whose  definite  ideal  intent  none  can 
gainsay,  out  of  the  same  materials  constructed  the  Sieg- 
fried tetralogy,  a  cycle  of  dramas  of  similar  significance. 
By  reason  of  the  requirement  of  a  dramatic  form,  the  one 
is  led  to  culminate  the  play  with  the  death  of  Siegfried 
and  the  consuming  flames  on  Valhalla.  Morris,  as  is 
consistent  with  an  epic  narrator,  continues  the  story  to 
the  fall  of  the  Niblung  kings,  but  beyond  this  he  cannot 
go ;  the  work  of  fate  is  ended.  Sigurd,  faring  forth  to  do 
battle  with  the  foes  of  the  gods,  thinks  the  time  is  long 
"till  the  dawning  of  love's  summer  from  the  cloudy 
days  of  wrong."  So  John  Ball  thought,  and  the  writer 
of  "News  from  Nowhere"  the  same. 

Probably  Chaucer  had  less  reason  for  complaint  than 
had  Morris.  Things  were  not  well  in  England,  as  Lang- 
land  and  the  Kentish  preacher  said,  but  Chaucer  and  his 
folk  could  still  be  "merrie."  One  wonders  to-day  how 


136  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

any  one  who  takes  thought  of  "the  hard-used  race  of  men" 
can  be  merry. 

"Think  of  the  spreading  sore  of  London  swallowing  up  with 
its  loathsomeness  field  and  wood  and  heath  witnout  mercy  and 
without  hope,  mocking  our  feeble  efforts  to  deal  even  with  its 
minor  evils  of  smoke  laden  sky  and  befouled  river:  the  black 
horror  and  reckless  squalor  of  our  manufacturing  districts,  so 
dreadful  to  the  senses  which  are  unused  to  them  that  it  is 
ominous  for  the  future  of  the  race  that  any  man  can  live  among 
it  in  tolerable  cheerfulness." 

Morris  wrote,  in  short,  in  the  spirit  of  a  man  who 
recognized  life's  tragic  conditions.  In  all  his  sweet  lines, 
we  feel  that  the  writer's  soul  was  filled  with  weariness. 
Woe  seemed  to  him  inevitable  and  universal.  The  world 
of  his  vision  was  like  the  weary  Titan  of  Arnold's  poem, 
staggering  on  to  the  goal,  bearing  the  too  great  load  of 
her  fate.  In  spite  of  his  Celtic  ancestry,  he  was  essen- 
tially a  Teuton  with  the  pagan  sense  of  fatalism.  Fate  is 
the  key-word  of  "Jason"  and  "The  Earthly  Paradise." 
Sigurd  and  the  Volsung  heroes  are  guided  ever  by  the 
Norns : — 

"And  what  the  dawn  has  fated  on  the  hour  of  noon  shall  fall." 

"Yea,  a  man  shall  be 
A  wonder  for  his  glorious  chivalry, 
First  in  all  wisdom,  of  a  prudent  mind, 
Yet   none  the   leas   him   too  his   fate   shall    find." 

Unique  indeed  among  literatures  in  pathos  of  anticipated 
calamity  is  one  of  the  "Poems  by  the  Way,"  entitled  the 
"Burgher's  Battle,"  where  lamentation  mingles  with  calm 
resignation,  exampling  the  pathos  of  foreboded  fate: — 

"Look  up!   the  arrows  streak  the  sky, 


A  TYPE  OP  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  137 

The  horns  of  battle  roar; 
The  long  spears  lower  and  draw  nigh, 
And  we  return  no  more." 

Even  the  stories,  "The  House  of  the  Wolfings"  and  "The 
Story  of  the  Glittering  Plain,"  are  touched  with  a  light 
which  is  half  sad,  like  the  silver  haze  of  the  Indian  sum- 
mer presaging  November  snows. 

The  thought  of  love  alone  puts  all  doubts  away.    Yet 
love  cannot  escape  the  universal  law. 

"Love  while  ye  may;  if  twain  grow  into  one 
'Tis  for  a  little  while;  the  time  goes  by, 
No  hatred  twixt  the  pair  of  friends  doth  lie, 
No  troubles  break  their  hearts — and  yet  and  yet — 
How  could  it  be?    We  strove  not  to  forget; 
Rather  in  vain  to  that  old  time  we  clung, 
Its  hopes  and  wishes,  round  our  hearts  we  hung. 
We  played  old  parts,  we  used  old  names  in  vain, 
We  go  our  ways  and  twain  once  more  are  twain  j 
Let  pass — at  latest  when  we  come  to  die 
Thus  shall  the  fashion  of  the  world  go  by." 

Yet  love  while  ye  may.  The  sufficiency  of  love  is  the 
subject  of  the  morality  play  of  "Pharamond,"  which 
showeth  of  a  king  whom  nothing  but  love  might  satisfy. 
Love  sings, — 

"I  am  the  life  of  all  that  dieth  not, 
Through  me  alone  is  sorrow  unforgot." 

And  the  poet  concedes, — 

"Love  is  enough:  though  the  world  be  a-waning 
And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of  complaining." 

In  sear  October,  midst  the  failing  year,  he  cries, — 

"Look  up  love!     Ah  cling  close  and  never  move! 
How  can  I  have  enough  of  life  and  love?" 


138  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

What  begetteth  ail  this  storm  of  bliss  ? 

"But  Death  himself,  who,  crying  solemnly, 
E'en  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetfulness, 
Bids  us  'Rejoice,  lest  pleasureless  ye  die, 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands  and  while  ye  live 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life  may  give.' " 

Death  and  age  and  forgetfulness  are  so  abhorrent  that 
every  minute  is  made  more  mindful  as  it  passes  by.  The 
poet  had  a  feverish  eagerness  to  enjoy  whatever  is  beau- 
tiful— every  love  and  friendship,  every  fine  creation  of 
the  artistic  thought,  every  charm  of  nature,  every  touch 
of  sun  and  shadow,  every  note  of  the  winds  or  the  seas — 
eagerness  to  take  delight  in  life  itself  before  the  night 
came  when  no  man  could  enjoy. 

"Love  is  enough:  cherish  life  that  abideth, 
Lest  ye  die  ere  ye  know  him  and  curse  and  misname  him." 

The  singer  could  not  know  the  meaning  of  death.  He 
knew  the  meaning  of  life  as  little. 

"Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it  meant ; 
Life  have  we  lived  through  green  leaf  and  through  sere 
Though  still  the  less  we  knew  of  its  intent." 

Yet  as  if  in  rebuke  to  those  of  us  who  hate  life  though 
we  do  not  fear  death,  he  cried,  "What  happiness  to  look 
upon  the  sun !"  So 

"In  the  white-flowered  hawthorn  brake, 
Love  be  merry  for  my  sake; 
Twine  the  blossoms  in  my  hair, 
Kiss  me  where  I  am  most  fair — 
Kiss  me  love!  for  who  knowetb. 
What  thing  cometh  after  death?" 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  139 

The  poet's  philosophy  of  fated  life  was,  however,  in- 
terwoven with  a  great  faith  in  the  consolation  of  art  and 
labor.  Art  was  his  own  passionate  delight.  As  an  artist 
he  was  content  and  calm.  His  poems  are  of  unvarying 
charm  and  purity,  with  every  superlative  metrical  excel- 
lence. The  heart  of  the  writer  has  been  in  his  work.  He 
bade  farewell  to  his  finished  books  as  a  lover:  "I  love 
thee  whatso  time  or  men  may  say  of  the  poor  singer  of 
an  empty  day;"  "I  confess  I  am  dull  now  my  book  is 
done ;"  "I  have  now  committed  the  irremediable  error  of 
finishing  the  Odyssey.  I  am  rather  sad  thereat."  How 
he  delighted  in  the  telling  of  a  story !  He  dallied  at  what- 
ever attracted  his  interest.  Greatest  care  was  taken  in 
depicting  works  of  human  handiwork.  He  loved  to 
picture  golden  vessels  and  ivory  thrones  and  webs  of 
price  and  sculptured  gate  and  pictured  ceiling  and  painted 
palaces  and  marble  halls.  A  city  is  thus  described, — 

"Walled  with  white  walla  it  was,  and  gardens  green 
Were  set  between  the  houses  everywhere; 
And  now  and  then  rose  up  a  tower  foursquare 
Lessening  in  stage  on  stage;  with  many  a  hue 
The  house  walls  glowed,  of  red  and  green  and  blue, 
And  some  with  gold  were  well  adorned,  and  one 
From   roofs   of  gold  flashed  back  the  noon-tide  sun." 

Entering  the  palace  the  decorations  are  noted : — 
"With  hangings  fresh  as  when  they  left  the  loom 
The  walls  were  hung  a  space  above  the  head, 
Slim  ivory  chairs  were  set  about  the  room, 
And  in  one  corner  was  a  dainty  bed, 
That  seemed  for  some  fair  queen  apparelled 
And  marble  was  the  worst  stone  of  the  floor 
That  with  rich  Indian  webs  was  covered  o'er." 


140  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

These  are  the  wonders  of  Aetes'  marble  house : — 

"The  pillars  made  the  mighty  roof  to  hold, 
The  one  was  silver  and  the  next  was  gold, 
All  down  the  hall;  the  roof  of  some  strange  wood 
Brought  over  sea,  was  dyed  as  red  as  blood, 
Set   thick   with  silver   flowers,   and  delight 
Of  intertwining  figures  wrought  aright. 
With  richest  webs  the  marble  halls  were  hung, 
Picturing   sweet  stories  by   the   poets   sung 
From  ancient  days  so  that  no  wall  seemed  there, 
But  rather  forests  black  and  meadows  fair, 
And  streets  of  well  built  towns,  with  tumbling  eeaa 
About  their  marble  wharves  and  palaces, 
And  fearful  crags  and  mountains;  and  all  trod 
By  changing  feet  of  giant,  nymph,  and  God, 
Spear-shaking  warrior  and  slim-ankled  maid." 

But  how  give  people  eyes  and  soul  for  art  and  beauty? 
How  but  by  guarding  the  fairness  of  the  earth  and  sky? 
Must  not  the  city  be  made  as  refreshing  as  the  meadows, 
as  exalting  as  the  mountains  ?  Art  and  nature  are  inter- 
dependent. Art  is  the  expression  of  reverence  for  nature. 
The  spirit  of  the  new  days  is  to  be  delight  in  the  life  of  the 
world,  love  of  the  very  surface  of  the  earth.  Surely  if 
the  seasons  are  to  arouse  in  us  no  other  feelings  than 
misery  in  winter  and  weariness  in  summer,  then  art  too 
will  fail,  and  we  shall  live  amidst  squalor  and  ugliness. 

Morris  was  passionately  fond  of  the  sun  and  air.  He 
loved  the  moist  green  meadows  and  silver  streaming 
rivers  of  his  England.  To  the  fields  and  woods  he  was 
wont  to  go  for  sound  and  color  and  pure  sensuous  delight. 
"If  I  could  but  say  or  show  how  I  love  it, —  the  earth 
and  the  growth  of  it  and  the  life  of  it !"  His  every  work 
is  a  witness  to  this  loving  sympathy.  In  the  landscapes 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  141 

of  "The  Earthly  Paradise"  he  notes  the  elements  of  de- 
light,— sounds,  sights,  and  odors,  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
hues  and  tints  of  nature,  the  winds,  orange-scented,  or 
heavy  with  odors  from  thymy  hills,  or  laden  with  the 
redolence  of  bean-flowers  and  clover  and  elder  blossoms. 
In  some  land  "long  ago"  there  was 

"A  valley  that  beneath  the  haze 
Of  that  most  fair  of  Autumn  days 
Shewed  glorious;  fair  with  golden  sheaves, 
Rich  with  darkened  autumn  leaves. 
Gay  with  its  water  meadows  green 
The  bright  blue  streams  that  lay  between — 
The  miles  of  beauty  stretched  away." 

In  another  country 

"Midst  her  wanderings  on  a  hot  noon-tide 
Psyche  passed  down  a  road  where  on  each  side 
The  yellow  corn  fields  lay,  although  as  yet 
Unto  the  stalks  no  sickle  had  been  set; 
The  lark  sung  over  them,  the  butterfly 
Flickered  from  ear  to  ear  distractedly, 
The  kestrel  hung  above,  the  weasel  peered 
Prom  out  the  wheat-stalks  on  her  unafeared, 
Along  the  road  the  trembling  poppies  shed 
On   the  burnt   grass   their  crumbling   leaves   and   red." 

A  different  aspect  of  nature  is  presented  in  the  story 
of  Sigurd,  where  Nature  encompasses  the  heroes  about 
with  the  likeness  of  a  fate.  In  harmony  with  the  North- 
ern sense  of  fatalism,  days  and  nights  form  the  back- 
ground of  deeds.  Morn  falls  to  noon-tide,  and  the  sun 
goeth  down  in  the  heavens,  and  the  dusk  and  the  dark 
draw  over,  and  the  stars  to  heaven  come,  and  the  white 
moon  climbeth  upward,  and  the  dusk  of  the  dawn  begins, 


142  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

and  the  day  opens  again, — 'mid  light  and  darkness  the 
heroes  ever  move.  Follow  Sigurd  as  he  rides  with  Regin 
to  the  Glittering  Heath : — 

"And  the  sun  rose  up  at  their  backs  and  the  grey  world  changed 

to  red, 

And   away  to  the  West  went   Sigurd  by  the  glory  wreathed 
about." 

"So  ever  they  wended  upward  and  the  midnight  hour  was  o'er 

And  the  stars  grew  pale  and  paler,  and  failed  from  the  heav- 
en's floor, 

And   the   moon   was   a   long   while  dead,   but   where   was   the 
promise  of  day? 

No  change  came  over  the  darkness,  no  streak  of  the  dawning 
grey; 

No  sound  of  the  winds  uprising  adown  the  night  there  ran; 

It  was  blind  as  the  Gaping  Gulf  ere  the  first  of  the  worlds 
began. 

*  *  *  * 

"But  lo,  at  the  last  a  glimmer,  and  a  light  from  the  west  there 

came, 

And  another  and  another,  like  points  of  a  far  off  flame; 
And    they    grew    and    brightened    and    gathered;    and    whiles 

together  they  ran 
Like  the  moonwake  over  the  waters ;  and  whiles  they  were  scant 

and  wan, 

Some  greater  and  some  lesser,   like  the  boats   of  fishera  laid 
About  the  sea  of  midnight,  and  a  dusky  dawn  they  made, 
A   faint    and  glimmering  twilight." 

Then  through  the  twilight,  Sigurd  wends  his  way  to  meet 
the  foe  of  the  Gods,  and  ere  daylight  is  come  the  heart  of 
the  serpent  is  cloven. 

"Then  lie  leapt   from  the  pit  and  the  grave  and  the  rushing 
river  of  blood, 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  143 

And  fulfilled  with  the  joy  of  the  War-God  in  the  face  of  earth 

he  stood 

With  red  sword  high  uplifted,  with  wrathful,  glittering  eyes; 
And   he   laughed    at  the   heavens    above   him   for   he   saw  the 

sun  arise, 
And  Sigurd  gleamed  on  the  desert,  and  shone  in  the  new  born 

light, 
And  the  wind  in  his  raiment  wavered  and  all  the  world  was 

bright." 

After  reading  "The  Earthly  Paradise,"  it  is  not  sur- 
prising to  find  in  "News  from  Nowhere"  that  the  very 
essence  of  the  new  day  of  fellowship  and  rest  is  delight  in 
the  natural  beauty  of  the  world.  The  poet  is  not  now 
describing  a  land  long  ago,  but  his  England  new-created ; 
and  this  is  his  picture  of  an  old  house  on  the  upper 
Thames  and  of  the  new  joy : 

"On  the  right  hand  we  could  see  a  cluster  of  small  houses  and 
barns,  new  and  old,  and  before  us  a  grey  stone  barn  and  a  wall 
partly  overgrown  with  ivy,  over  which  a  few  grey  gables  showed. 
We  crossed  the  road,  and  again  almost  without  my  will  my 
hand  raised  the  latch  of  a  door  in  the  wall,  and  we  stood  presently 
on  a  stone  path  which  led  up  to  the  old  house.  .  .  .  My  com- 
panion gave  a  sigh  of  pleased  surprise  and  enjoyment;  nor  did 
I  wonder,  for  the  garden  between  the  wall  and  the  house  was 
redolent  of  the  June  flowers,  and  the  roses  were  rolling  over  one 
another  with  that  delicious  superabundance  of  small  well  tended 
gardens  which  at  first  sight  takes  away  all  thought  from  the 
beholder  save  that  of  beauty.  The  blackbirds  were  singing  their 
loudest,  the  doves  were  cooing  on  the  roof  ridge,  the  rooks  in  the 
high  elm  trees  beyond  were  garrulous  among  the  young  leaves, 
and  the  swifts  wheeled  whirring  about  the  gables.  And  the  house 
itself  was  a  fit  guardian  for  all  the  beauty  of  this  heart  of  sum- 
mer. 

"Once  again  Ellen  echoed  my  thoughts  as  she  said:  'Yes, 
friend,  this  is  what  I  came  out  for  to  see;  this  many  gabled  old 


144  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

house,  built  by  the  simple  country  folk  of  the  long-past  times 
.  .  .  is  lovely  still,  amidst  all  the  beauty  which  these  latter 
days  have  created.  ...  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  had  waited  for 
these  happy  days,  and  held  in  it  the  gathered  crumbs  of  happi- 
ness of  the  confused  and  turbulent  past.' 

"She  led  me  up  close  to  the  house,  and  laid  her  shapely  sun- 
browned  hand  and  arm  on  the  lichened  wall  as  if  to  embrace  it, 
and  cried  out,  '0  me!  0  me!  How  I  love  the  earth,  and  the  sea- 
eons,  and  weather,  and  all  things  that  deal  with  it,  and  all  that 
grows  out  of  it — as  this  has  done ! '  " 


IV. 


The  development  of  Morris's  life  has  been  gradual. 
His  genius,  we  can  now  see,  was  nurtured  and  matured  in 
a  dim,  mediaeval  atmosphere.  His  early  writings  were 
suited  to  the  fragile  sense  of  some  lady  of  an  ancient 
bower  whose  eyes  might  wet  when  "heaven  and  earth 
on  some  fair  eve  had  grown  too  fair  for  mirth."  The 
poet  confessed  his  verses  had  no  power  to  bear  the  cares 
of  the  earners  of  bread.  "My  work,"  he  said  of  himself 
at  this  period,  "is  the  embodiment  of  dreams."  For  him- 
self and  for  those  who  could  be  lulled  by  his  empty  songs, 
he  built  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss,  "East  of  the  Sun  and 
West  of  the  Moon,"  in  the  golden  haze  of  the  past. 
Each  year,  however,  his  work  became  more  wide  and 
sane.  Each  work  advanced  on  the  last  in  intensity  of 
human  feeling._  From  the  romantic  mysticism  of  his 
stories  he  was  summoned  to  epic  narrative.  The  story 
of  Sigurd  is  easily  the  strongest  and  most  effective  epic 
of  its  century.  The  influence  of  Rossetti  was  outgrown 
and  the  twain  parted  to  follow  diverse  roads.  Rossetti 
lost  himself  in  artistic  mysticism.  Morris's  robust  nature 


A  TYPE  OP  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  145 

led  him  into  the  arena  of  daily  life.  As  early  as  1877  he 
helped  to  institute  a  Society  for  the  Protection  of  An- 
cient Buildings,  and  the  Eastern  Question  Association, 
his  interest  in  the  former  being  the  immediate  occasion 
of  his  first  public  address,  his  devotion  to  the  latter 
leading  to  his  adoption  of  a  dogmatic  Socialism. 
That  year  he  wrote  his  first  political  verse,  a  stirring 
ballad,  "Wake  London  Lads,"  which  was  sung  at  an 
Exeter  Hall  meeting  of  protest.  Sigurd  written  at  this 
epoch  of  his  evolution  is  concerned  with  ideal  human 
life.  Said  Sigurd  to  the  King  of  the  Niblungs : — 

"And  I  would  that  the  loving  were  loved,  and  I  would  that  the 

weary  should  sleep 

And  that  man  should  hearken  to  man,  and  that  he  that  soweth 
should  reap." 

In  "The  Dream  of  John  Ball,"  the  most  exquisite  of  his 
prose  romances  and  the  most  profound  among  his  social 
writings,  and  "News  from  Nowhere,"  an  idyl  of  Revolu- 
tion, Morris  grasped  at  length  the  concrete  problems  of 
social  existence.  In  "Poems  by  the  Way"  and  "Pilgrims 
of  Hope"  he  poetized  the  democratic  concepts  of  the 
new  world  as  they  had  never  been  rendered  before. 
"The  cause  of  art,"  he  now  saw,  "is  the  cause  of  the  peo- 
ple." All  through  the  8o's  his  energy  and  ardor  were 
given  to  propagandism.  He  was  one  of  the  prime  sup- 
porters of  the  Democratic  Federation,  which  he  joined 
in  1882.  He  became  the  recognized  leader  of  a  Socialist 
League,  founded  at  the  close  of  the  year  1884,  acted 
as  its  Treasurer  and  edited  its  official  publication,  The 
Commonweal.  In  a  letter  written  in  1886,  he  said :  "The 
ideas  which  have  taken  hold  of  me  will  not  let  me  rest ; 


146  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

nor  can  I  see  anything  else  worth  thinking  of."  In  1890, 
withdrawing  from  the  Socialist  League,  because  of  its 
growing  anarchistic  tendencies,  a  seceding  group  with 
Morris  as  leader  formed  the  Hammersmith  Socialist 
Society.  To  the  ending  of  the  commercial  age  and  the 
dawning  of  a  day  of  peace  and  good  will,  Morris  now 
looked  forward  with  the  same  feeling  as  when  in  Sigurd 
he  pictured  the  twilight  of  the  gods  of  greed  and  the 
rising  of  the  sun  in  Balder  the  Fair. 

To  Morris's  first  readers  the  abandonment  of  aesthetic 
for  social  standards  must  have  seemed  a  wandering  in 
the  wilderness — so  little  is  the  true  nature  of  literature 
understood.  So  little  is  the  unity  of  Morris's  many-sided 
career  comprehended  it  has  been  left  for  sociology,  the 
newest  of  the  sciences,  to  discern  the  real  meaning  of 
literature.  Literature,  in  truth,  is  social  in  its  origin, 
social  in  its  nature,  and  social  in  its  results.  It  was  the 
same  Morris  who  at  different  times  composed  poems, 
designed  wall  papers,  printed  books  and  devised  plans  of 
social  reform.  Poets  are  idealists.  The  condition  of  their 
writing  at  all  is  that  they  have  the  power  of  creating 
certain  ideal  forms.  It  is  now  a  matter  of  indifference 
whether  these  ideal  forms  are  projected  into  books  or 
upon  canvas,  or  into  society  itself,  but  projected  they  must 
be.  The  lives  of  such  authors  and  artists  as  Victor  Hugo, 
Zola,  Shelley,  Millet,  Ruskin  and  Tolstoi  furnish  proof 
of  this.  The  connection  between  literature  and  life  is 
indeed  so  intimate  that  it  is  doubtful  if  anyone  can  either 
create  or  understand  great  literature  who  has  not  the 
genius  for  social  reform.  Lester  Ward  defines  genius  as 
a  sociogenetic  force,  socially  not  personally  advantageous. 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  147 

In  becoming  a  socialist  Morris  proved  the  vitality  of  his 
poetry  and  the  integrity  of  his  own  soul. 

It  is  true  that  he  was  a  fatalist.  But  his  sense  of  fate 
increased  the  value  of  life.  Life,  he  found,  is  worth 
living  for  its  own  sake,  for  love  of  friends,  and  joy  and 
work  and  freedom.  Early  he  had  reached  a  profound 
conviction  of  the  purpose  of  art  as  an  indispensable  ele- 
ment in  human  life. 

"Beauty  which  is  what  is  meant  by  art,  using  the  word  in  its 
widest  sense,  is,  I  contend,  no  mere  accident  of  human  life  which 
people  can  take  or  leave  as  they  choose,  but  a  positive  necessity 
of  life,  if  we  are  to  live  as  nature  meant  us  to,  that  is  unless 
we  are  content  to  be  less  than  men." 

It  was  the  spectacle  or  art  d\ing  out  under  the  system 
of  capitalism  that  first  drew  his  attention  to  Socialism. 
In  his  combined  claim  for  art  and  labor — the  return  of 
art,  that  is  to  say  of  the  "Pleasure  of  Life,"  to  the  people 
— shall  it  not  be  acknowledged  that  Morris  reached  by  an 
elemental  instinct  a  great  truth  of  the  world;  for  indus- 
trial liberty,  to  gain  which  the  world  is  now  struggling, 
is  the  most  intimate  and  personal  of  all  emancipatory 
modes.  Industrial  liberty  means  the  return  of  manhood 
to  common  work.  "Life,"  says  Ruskin,  "without  indus- 
try is  guilt,  and  industry  without  art  is  brutality."  The 
world,  to-day,  in  short,  is  under  the  necessity  of  grati- 
fying the  art  instinct;  that  is,  of  humanizing  labor,  of 
giving  soul  to  the  Titan's  body,  or  of  suffering  enslave- 
ment to  mere  materials.  Any  economy  worthy  of  the 
name  must  enforce  the  need  of  uniting  art  and  industry. 

So  after  many  years  the  social  burden  of  t"he  times  was 
laid  upon  the  poet's  mind  and  heart.  His  passion  for 
life  and  beauty  inflamed  him  with  a  desire  to  bring  all 


148  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

men  within  the  circle  of  their  ministration.  But  before 
him  perpetually  was  the  city  of  London,  huge  and  un- 
sightly. He  heard  the  murmur  and  moan  from  the  race 
of  men.  From  his  home  by  the  river  he  saw  the  working 
of  a  selfish  commercialism  which  had  taken  monetary 
profit  and  loss,  and  not  the  human  kind,  as  its  basis  for 
calculation.  With  a  heart  laden  with  anger,  he  entered 
a  protest  against  "man's  inhumanity  to  man."  With  a 
heart  laden  with  love,  he  preached  the  doctrines  of 
brotherhood.  His  position  was  revolutionary. 

"I  have  more  than  ever  at  my  heart  the  importance  for 
people  of  living  in  beautiful  places ;  I  mean  the  sort  of 
beauty  which  would  be  attainable  by  all,  if  people  could 
but  begin  to  long  for  it.  I  do  most  earnestly  desire  that 
something  more  startling  could  be  done  than  mere  con- 
stant private  grumbling  and  occasional  public  speaking 
to  lift  the  standard  of  revolt  against  the  sordidness  which 
people  are  so  stupid  as  to  think  necessary." 

The  key  to  his  revolutionary  position  is  contained  in 
an  address  made  before  a  Trade  Guild  assembly : 

"I  do  not  want  art  for  a  few,  any  more  than  education 
for  a  few,  or  freedom  for  a  few.  No,  rather  than  that 
art  should  live  this  poor  thin  life  among  a  few  excep- 
tional men,  despising  those  beneath  them  for  an  ignor- 
ance for  which  they  themselves  are  responsible,  for  a 
brutality  which  they  will  not  struggle  with ;  rather  than 
this,  I  would  that  the  world  should,  indeed,  sweep  away 
all  art  for  awhile — rather  than  wheat  should  rot  in  a 
miser's  granary,  I  would  that  the  earth  had  it,  that  it 
might  quicken  in  the  dark." 

The  democratization  of  art  was,  in  short,  the  special 
social  aim  of  William  Morris.  The  "Cause,"  as  Morris 


A  TYPE  OF  TRANSITION  :  WILLIAM  MORRIS  149 

always  called  the  object  of  his  devotion,  pertains  to  the 
well  being  of  every  individual.  That  civilization  which 
does  not  carry  with  it  the  whole  people  is  doomed  to 
failure.  Pertinently  he  makes  his  plea : 

"Let  me  remind  you  how  only  the  other  day  in  the  life  time 
of  the  youngest  of  us,  many  thousand  men  of  our  own  kindred 
gave  their  lives  on  the  battle  field  to  bring  to  a  happy  ending  a 
mere  episode  in  the  struggle  for  the  abolition  of  slavery:  They 
are  blessed  and  happy  for  the  opportunity  came  to  them,  ancf 
they  seized  it  and  did  .their  best,  and  the  world  is  the  wealthier 
for  it:  and  if  such  an  opportunity  is  offered  to  us,  shall  we 
thrust  it  from  us  that  we  may  sit  still  in  ease  of  body,  in  doubt, 
in  disease  of  soul?" 

Revolutionary  as  Morris  was  in  theory,  in  practical 
temper  he  was  eminently  sane  and  constructive.  "For 
the  most  part,"  he  would  say,  "we  shall  be  too  busy  doing 
the  work  that  lies  ready  to  our  hands  to  let  impatience 
for  visibly  great  progress  vex  us  much.  And  surely, 
since  we  are  servants  of  a  cause,  hope  must  be  ever 
with  us." 

As  a  prophet  of  new  industrialism,  William  Morris 
was  one  of  the  most  significant  men  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  He  must  command  respect  even  from  those 
who  cannot  share  in  his  socialistic  hope.  Be  it  observed 
that  no  stunted  capacity  or  sordid  aims  ranged  him  on 
the  side  of  socialism.  All  in  all  he  is  the  most  distin- 
guished Englishman  of  the  iQth  century,  and  his  utter- 
ances must  be  received  with  respect.  It  was  furthermore 
a  real  burden  which  he  bore.  He  had  reverence  for  the 
life  of  man  upon  the  earth.  To  the  cause  of  humanity, 
he  subordinated  his  whole  poetic  genius.  With  a  strenu- 
ous hope  and  with  a  sturdy  strife  at  breast,  he  turned  to 


130  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  future,  and  with  that  longing  for  rest  that  never  Wt 
him,  created  in  the  heroic  age  to  come,  a  romance  of  rrst 
and  peace  and  good  will.  And  if  others  can  see  it  as  Vie 
saw  it,  then  it  may  be  called  a  vision  rather  than  a  dream. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY. 

(AN   ADDRESS   DELIVERED   BEFORE  THE   ILLINOIS   STATE 
TEACHERS'  ASSOCIATION,  DECEMBER,  1904.) 

The  maker  of  this  program  had  a  philosophic  and  dis- 
cerning mind.  He  perceived  that  play  is  a  principle  of 
such  universal  bearing  that  it  has  a  science,  a  sociology 
and  a  philosophy.  Play,  to  use  the  terms  of  science,  is 
a  mode  of  motion.  Wherever  there  is  movement  there 
is  play.  If  we  may  believe  Lucretius  as  to  the  loves  and 
hates  of  atoms  play  is  an  attribute  of  all  matter.  The 
principle  of  play  was  first  given  formulation,  I  believe, 
by  the  German  poet  Schiller.  Its  universal  significance 
was  first  detected  by  Herbert  Spencer  who  traced  the 
aesthetic  activity  of  man  to  the  play  of  animals,  the  se- 
lective sense  of  beauty  in  plants,  and  the  sentient  life  of 
the  atom.  Play  in  the  human  sphere  may  be  defined  as 
the  free  creative  functioning  of  the  self. 

The  properties  of  play  may  be  determined  by  a  study 
of  its  modes  among  animals,  and  of  its  processes  when 
it  becomes  humanized  and  consciously  artistic.  For  art 
is  the  freest  play-ground  of  the  spirit.  What  are  the  con- 
ditions under  which  necessity  passes  into  freedom  and 
the  useful  is  idealized  and  transfigured? 

The  function  that  beauty  serves  in  evolution  is  an  im- 
portant one.  Not  infrequently  the  law  of  the  survival 
of  the  fittest  means  the  survival  of  the  most  beautiful. 
The  graceful  feathers  of  the  lyre-bird,  the  gorgeous  color- 


152  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

ing  of  the  peacock  and  humming-bird,  the  calls  of  mon- 
keys, birds  and  insects,  the  brilliancy  of  flowers — all  repre- 
sent evolutionary  selection  in  lines  of  beauty.  Fair  forms 
and  colors  are  the  summons  sent  from  objects  to  objects 
for  fusion  and  union.  Impressionability  to  beauty  implies 
a  conscious  aesthetic  sense  on  the  part  of  those  creatures 
thus  affected.  That  there  is  sesthetical  feeling  among  the 
lower  forms  of  life  is  proven  beyond  a  doubt.  The 
famous  bower-birds  of  Australia  furnish  the  most  notable 
instance  of  aesthetic  display  among  animals.  For  use  dur- 
ing the  time  of  courtship  these  birds  construct  bowers  of 
twigs  and  grass.  These  halls  are  not  made  for  practical 
use,  but  serve  as  festal  structures,  or  avenues  of  assembly, 
in  which  their  owners  may  plume  and  display  themselves. 
The  greatest  care  and  taste  are  lavished  upon  the  work. 
Foundations  are  laid  in  the  ground,  and  a  bower  of  grass 
and  bushes,  several  feet  in  length,  is  arched  overhead. 
The  courts  at  the  end  of  the  bower  are  paved  with  small 
round  pebbles,  and  bright  stones,  shells  and  feathers  are 
so  displayed  that  a  color  adornment  is  secured.  Such 
structures,  not  being  intended  for  nests,  but  simply  to  be 
used  during  a  special  festal  period,  are  wholly  ideal  in 
their  nature,  and  evidence  the  presence  of  the  spirit  of 
play. 

The  aesthetic  display  in  man  began  with  the  same  refer- 
ence to  his  mate,  but  the  feeling  was  gradually  extended 
to  comprise  outside  persons,  and  having  assumed  sociolog- 
ical import,  it  became  in  time  a  most  efficient  instrument 
in  the  struggle  for  existence.  The  savage  adorned  his 
body,  decorated  his  utensils  and  weapons,  shaped  and 
colored  his  dwelling  place.  To  the  adornment  of  his 
home  he  further  employed  sculpture  and  painting.  Under 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY  153 

excitement  he  sang — a  simple  musical  chant,  and  to  its 
rhythms  he  danced,  and  out  of  the  dance  poetry  and  the 
drama  arose.  Everything  in  primitive  life  points  to  the 
immense  importance  of  the  aesthetic  activity.  The  quality 
of  the  art  and  the  stage  of  culture  correspond  intimately. 
When  men  ceased  to  hunt,  and  settled  as  agriculturists, 
the  richness  of  their  art  compared  with  the  former  pov- 
erty, is  a  sign  of  social  advance.  But  this  very  improve- 
ment is  in  part  due  to  the  order  and  unity  introduced 
into  the  fluctuating  life  of  hunting  tribes  by  various  forms 
of  art,  particularly  the  dance,  which  by  engaging  whole 
family  groups,  furthered  greater  social  union. 

What  now  is  the  source  of  the  artistic  impulse  and 
with  what  life  process  is  it  associated  ?  Among  the  low- 
est forms  of  life  all  the  energy  of  being  seems  to  be  ex- 
pended in  sustaining  and  preserving  life.  Among  the 
higher  orders,  where  the  conflict  of  life  is  less  fierce, 
opportunity  is  afforded  for  escape  into  ideal  action.  The 
energy  of  being,  not  fully  exhausted  in  the  effort  to  sup- 
ply physical  needs,  engages  in  some  form  of  free  expres- 
sion, as  directed  by  more  or  less  conscious  ideal  desire. 
Play  implies  freedom  from  physical  need,  an  excess  of 
life  functioning,  some  degree  of  self-determination,  some 
conscious  satisfaction,  and  a  certain  power  of  abstraction. 

To  justify  this  statement  let  me  pass  in  review  a  series 
of  activities ;  advancing  from  the  simple  to  the  complex 
and  from  animals  to  men. 

The  simple  aimless  running  about  of  animals  and  men 
in  play  rises  into  the  more  complex  forms  of  the  leap 
and  gesture,  in  a  more  advanced  civilization  passing  to 
forms  of  the  dance.  The  simple  shout  and  cry  develops 
into  successive  and  pleasing  notes,  as  of  a  bird,  and  issues 


154  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

in  human  song.  The  purposeless  clawing  and  cutting  of 
animals  and  men  become  some  form  of  pleasure-giving 
construction,  such  as  purposeful  carving  and  adornment, 
with  delight  in  form.  The  simple  color  sense  leads  to 
decoration  for  pleasure  and  with  a  sense  of  harmony. 
The  adornment  of  nests  with  bright  objects  proceeds  to 
construction,  with  a  sense  of  form,  and,  among  men,  to 
building  with  a  conscious  feeling  for  proportion. 

Now  examine  the  later  modes  of  these  activities  and 
note  the  common  characteristic !  The  dance,  the  complex 
form  of  running  and  leaping,  is  distinguished  by  con- 
scious rhythm.  The  song,  the  higher  form  of  the  cry,  is 
characterized  by  a  conscious  sense  of  time.  Carving, 
the  artistic  outcome  of  cutting,  is  differentiated  by  a 
knowledge  of  design.  Color  decoration,  the  complex 
form  of  a  simple  sense  for  bright  objects,  is  distinguished 
by  perception  of  color  harmony.  Finally,  building,  the 
higher  form  of  construction,  is  done  under  knowledge  of 
proportion.  What  is  added  in  the  second  series  to  the 
first  ?  Plainly  in  the  first  series  the  activity  is  aimless ; 
in  the  second  there  is  order  and  design.  The  presence  of 
order  evidences  the  introduction  of  mind  into  the  process. 
The  savage  dances  in  rhythm,  sings  in  time,  paints  in 
color,  builds  in  proportion,  because  it  is  pleasing  to  him 
psychically  to  engage  in  an  ideal  self-determined  exercise. 
Here,  then,  play-activity  becomes  aesthetic;  his  play  is 
carried  on  with  conscious  purpose,  freedom,  self-deter- 
mination, and  pleasure. 

Where  purpose  does  not  enter,  the  activity  is  not  truly 
denominated  play.  The  deer  in  running  strikes  his  hoofs 
in  order,  but  the  order  is  mechanical  and  not  self-con- 
trolled. The  bird  sings  in  successive  notes,  the  beaver 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY  155 

builds  dams,  ants  build  hills,  bees  construct  cells;  but 
these  results  are  not  intentional.  The  animal  is  uncon- 
scious, merely  under  the  control  of  evolutionary  forces ; 
the  excellence  of  the  result  not  being  dependent  upon 
conscious  intelligence,  but  upon  fixedness  of  habit  and 
the  very  narrowness  of  the  line  of  improvement:.  The 
flower  displays  its  color,  but  it  has  no  sense  of  its  har- 
mony in  the  field.  Birds  sing  pleasing  notes,  but  not,  as 
in  a  choir,  with  a  knowledge  of  general  harmony. 

Mentality  is  perhaps  most  readily  perceived  in  music. 
The  cries  of  animals  and  the  notes  of  birds  can  hardly  be 
designated  as  song.  The  indefinite  shouts  and  irregular 
cries  of  primitive  man  were  expressions  which  had  not 
yet  arrived  at  aesthetic  value.  Sounds  become  musical 
when  mind  controls  the  succession  and  co-ordination. 
Music  ascends  from  simple  concord  of  two  notes  to  ever 
more  complex  phrases,  strains,  songs  and  choruses: — 
ever  higher  and  higher  above  the  plane  of  sensation, 
until  in  orchestral  and  symphonic  music  the  effect  is  al- 
most wholly  mental.  Into  the  work  of  art  reflection, 
intention  and  invention  enter. 

A  convenient  savage  for  our  scrutiny  in  these  respects 
is  Browning's  Caliban:  a  primitive  man,  yet  one  suf- 
ficiently evolved  to  exhibit  racial  characteristics.  He  is 
undeveloped,  yet  old  enough  to  be  taught  of  deity  by  his 
dam,  and  to  think  somewhat  for  himself.  His  sensory 
experiences  are  of  a  low  order.  Within  the  range  of 
his  interests  his  senses  are  keen,  but  only  now  and  then 
does  he  see  or  hear  aesthetically.  He  has  learned  the 
look  of  things  in  relation  to  his  physical  safety.  He 
would  examine  clouds  and  sunsets  as  tokens  of  storm. 
The  range  of  his  interests  is  shown  in  his  first  reflection : 


156  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

"Will  sprawl  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin, 
And  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh; 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant, 
Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 
And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch — 
He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
And  recross,  till  they  weave  a  spider-web — 
Meshes  of  fire  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times, 
And  talks  with  his  own  self." 

In  one  of  these  sensory  experiences:  namely,  when  he 
looks  out  over  the  sea  and  watches  the  play  of  sunbeams, 
Caliban  is  receiving  an  aesthetic  effect  which  has  no  rela- 
tion to  his  bodily  pleasures ;  it  is  not  a  sensuous  pleasure 
only,  but,  also,  an  intellectual  enjoyment.  Furthermore, 
he  is  a  creative  artist.  Thus  he  compares  himself  with 
Setebos : 

"Tasteth  himself  no  finer  good  in  the  world 
When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer  time, 
And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches,  not  much, 
Than  trying  wrhat  to  do  with  wit  and  strength, 
Falls  to  make  something;  piled  yon  pile  of  turf  a 
And  squared  and  stuck  there  piles  of  soft  white  chalk, 
And  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 
And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 
And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  scull  a-top 
Found  dead  in  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill. 
No  use  at  all  in  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake." 

The   conditions   of  his  artistic  activity  are   thus   his 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY  1ST 

physical  safety,  satisfaction,  and  consequent  excess  of 
energy.  He  is  freed  from  external  objects  and  permitted 
to  give  his  ideal  faculties  full  play.  All  that  he  does, 
thus  conditioned,  is  characterized  by  the  presence  of  de- 
sign; all  is  proportioned,  harmonized  and  well  ordered. 
He  was  under  no  compulsion  to  make  these  objects ; 
he  was  purely  self-conditioned  in  doing  so,  and  mani- 
festly he  works  to  the  end  of  pleasure. 

Evolutionary  aesthetics,  then,  establishes  several  im- 
portant facts  about  art  and  the  artistic  impulse.  The  es- 
sential characteristic  of  artistic  expression  is  freedom. 
Art  is  not  a  product  of  necessity  or  related  to  use.  It 
affords  gratification  to  instincts  and  feelings  which  find 
their  exercise  only  when  necessity  and  use  are  satisfied. 
Practical  activity  serves  as  means,  aesthetic  activity  is  an 
end  in  itself.  When  savage  tribes  engage  in  warfare, 
their  energy  is  practical.  When  victory  is  celebrated 
with  dancing,  the  aesthetic  is  brought  into  play  to  the 
degree  of  pleasure  experienced  by  the  dancers  in  their 
own  rhythmic  movements.  In  art,  man  is  not  the  creat- 
ure of  fate,  but  the  arbiter  in  the  ideal  realm,  at  least,  of 
his  own  destinies,  the  maker  of  his  own  world.  The 
artist  is  absolutely  the  only  free  man. 

And  connected  with  this  attribute  is  that  of  self-deter- 
mination. When  moved  by  the  impulse  to  create,  the 
artist  proves  his  individuality.  He  becomes  conscious 
of  possessing  ideal  faculties  which,  in  order  to  realize, 
he  must  objectify  for  his  contemplation.  Thought  must 
be  expressed.  Freedom  is  not  lawlessness.  But  inner 
control  is  exchanged  for  outer  law.  When  the  artist 
creates  a  form  and  embodies  himself  therein,  he  is  made 


158  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

aware  that  he  is  a  free,  self -determining,  law-abiding  per- 
sonality. 

The  third  characteristic  implied  by  the  other  two  is 
what  I  shall  call,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  ideality.  It 
is  not  the  function  of  art  to  reproduce  the  real  world. 
We  have  senses  of  our  own  and  can  take  the  artist's  skill 
for  granted.  What  we  want  displayed  and  defined  is 
personality.  What  is  the  man's  mystery?  As  we  have 
seen,  simple  play  becomes  aesthetic,  when  it  is  conscious 
and  conducted  in  freedom  to  the  end  of  self-realization. 
Order,  proportion,  harmony  are  laws  of  art,  not  from 
any  enactment  on  the  part  of  critics,  but  from  the  very 
nature  of  mind.  Mind  is  itself  an  order,  a  rhythm,  a 
harmony.  The  history  of  art,  therefore,  is  the  history  of 
a  freely  developing  personality.  As  the  soul  expands 
and  contains  more,  it  expresses  more.  Mediaeval  art  is, 
in  a  sense,  greater  than  Grecian  art,  since  it  contains 
more  of  life  and  experience.  Gothic  art  may  be  inferior 
in  point  of  skill  and  manipulation,  but  its  soul  is  greater, 
its  feeling  more  intense,  its  grasp  of  ideality  more  com- 
plete. The  ancient  world  has  no  counterpart  to  Michel- 
angelo, with  his  fierce,  vital,  electric  face  and  his  tur- 
bulent, strenuous  soul.  The  difference  between  the  classic 
and  the  mediaeval  is  well  expressed  in  Gilder's  poems  of 
the  Two  Worlds :  one  the  world  of  the  Venus  of  Milo : 

"Grace,  majesty,  and  the  calm  bliss  of  life, 
No  conscious  war  'tvvixt  human  will  and  duty. 
Here  breathes,  forever  free  from  pain  and  strife, 
The   old,    untroubled   pagan   world    of   beauty." 

The  other  is  the  world  of  Michelangelo's  Slave : 
"Of  life,  of  death  the  mystery  and  woe, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  PLAY  159 

Witness  in  this  mute,  carven  stone  the  whole! 
That  suffering  smile  were  never  fashioned  so 
Before  the  world  had  wakened  .to  a  soul." 

To  the  same  effect  is  a  passage  in  Lowell's  "Cathedral." 

"The  Grecian  gluts  me  with  its  perfectness. 
But  ah!  this  other,  this  Gothic  that  never  ends, 
Still  climbing,  luring  fancy  still  to  climb, 
As  full  of  morals  half-divined  as  life, 
Graceful,  grotesque,  with  ever  new  surprise 
Of  hazardous  caprices  sure  to  please, 
Heavy  as  night-mare,  airy-light  as  fern, 
Imagination's  very  self  in  stone! 
Your  blood  is  mine,  ye  architects  of  dreama, 
Builders  of  aspiration  incomplete." 

To  illustrate  the  growth  in  ideality  one  might  bring  a 
Greek  of  the  age  of  Pericles  into  the  Western  world. 
How  much  of  the  mediaeval  and  the  modern  would  he 
comprehend !  He  would  stand  before  a  Gothic  Cathedral 
with  amazement.  The  meaning  of  the  structure,  the 
sign  of  the  Cross  in  transept  and  nave,  everywhere  the 
symbols  of  aspiration,  of  the  yearning  of  the  soul  to 
reach  through  material  forms  to  a  spiritual  truth  far 
higher  than  Olympian  heights:  these  would  pass  his  un- 
derstanding. If  taken  to  a  Symphony  Concert,  he  would 
have  neither  the  sensory  experience  nor  the  ideality 
necessary  to  comprehend  the  different  movements.  How 
could  he,  who  thought  to  enter  the  region  of  calm  ten- 
anted by  Zeus,  feel  the  mighty  passion,  the  tumultuous 
struggles  of  Beethoven's  Heroic  Symphony!  Take  him 
into  a  gallery  of  painting — would  he  not  be  bewildered 
by  the  complexity  of  modern  life  ?  What  reading  would 
he  make  of  the  pain  and  power  in  Millet's  peasant  faces  ? 


160  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

What  conception  could  he  have  of  the  tragedy  and  depth 
of  the  life  conducted  on  the  vast  laborious  earth?  So 
would  not  the  more  recent  psychic  experiences  of  the 
race  be  beyond  his  apprehension? 

While  the  World's  Fair  was  building  at  Chicago  I 
watched  the  simple  Java  folk  erect  their  huts  and  wattled 
fences  beside  the  complex  gigantic  Ferris  Wheel.  I  could 
not  see  that  the  Javians  looked  upon  the  wheel  even  with 
any  wonder.  They  were  hardly  curious.  The  whole 
mechanical  mystery  was  utterly  beyond  their  grasp. 
The  ideality  of  the  wheel,  the  principles  of  its  construc- 
tion, were  many  fold  greater  than  that  of  their  simple 
dwellings. 

The  whole  Fair,  by  the  way,  was  a  colossal  play: — 
the  Titanic  sport  of  a  summer,  a  buoyant  lyric  endeavor 
just  meant  to  exhibit  for  a  moment  the  hidden  prophetic 
intentions  of  an  ideal  people,  the  scope  of  whose  ideality 
was  but  inadequately  measured  by  the  vast  arches  that 
spanned  the  space  of  the  manufactory  building.  Fes- 
tivals, shows,  pomps,  may  be  as  important  as  the  reali- 
ties of  the  streets,  opportunities  for  ideal  exercises,  for 
which  trade  and  commerce  are  the  preparation  and  the 
background.  When  the  complaint  is  heard  that  World's 
Fairs  represent  economic  waste,  it  is  well  to  be  reminded 
of  that  saying  of  Schiller :  "Man  only  plays,  when,  in  the 
full  meaning  of  the  term,  he  is  man,  and  he  is  only  com- 
pletely man  when  he  plays." 

When  man  plays  he  is  free,  he  is  self-determined. 
Freedom,  self-determination,  ideality: — these  are  the 
characteristics  of  aesthetic  play. 

An  important  truth  remains  now  to  be  stated.  It  is 
this :  whenever  a  man  expresses  himself  under  conditions 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY  161 

of  freedom  and  self-control,  he  is  an  artist — whatever 
his  occupation  or  field  of  activity — and  he  receives  the 
rewards  and  gains  of  an  artist:  the  reward  of  pleasure, 
the  gain  of  an  enlarged  personality,  and  an  increasing 
personal  force.  What  are  called  the  Fine  Arts  are  by 
no  means  the  only  aesthetic  field.  These  have  to-day 
limited  an  instinct  which  is  common  to  all,  usurped  a 
privilege  that  should  be  shared  by  all.  It  has  come  about 
through  historical  changes  that  the  artist,  in  these  more 
specialized  spheres,  is  the  only  free  man  in  the  world  of 
work;  all  others,  in  some  degree,  live  under  compulsion. 
Therefore,  the  problem  of  freedom  in  the  modern  world 
is  to  extend  that  freedom  which  the  artist  alone  enjoys 
into  every  field  of  industrialism.  We  may  summarize 
our  freedom  thus  far  in  these  terms:  Man  is  free  po- 
litically. We  have  struggled  with  thrones  and  tyrannies 
and  have  won  victory.  If  we  suffer  misgovernment  to- 
day, we  have  ourselves  to  blame.  So  man  is  free  in 
religious  matters.  We  have  battled  with  priesthood  and 
ecclesiasticism  and  have  gained  the  right  of  worship  ac- 
cording to  our  conscience.  If  we  remain  evil,  the  fault 
is  at  our  own  doors.  In  these  realms  we  are  practi- 
cally free,  shapers  of  the  laws  and  creeds  for  ourselves. 
These  matters  have  already  receded  in  special  interest, 
and  special  devotion  to  them  bespeaks  a  retarded  develop- 
ment. But,  in  the  way  of  work,  in  what  is  for  most  of 
us  most  intimate,  we  are  little  better  than  slaves  living 
under  necessity,  obeying  machines,  attending  to  masters. 
Now,  as  political  liberty  does  not  mean  license  and  law- 
lessness, but  rather  the  right  to  be  a  law  to  oneself,  as 
religious  liberty  does  not  mean  the  right  to  have  no  reli- 
gion, but  rather  to  be  self-directive  in  worship  and  ser- 


1G2  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

vice;  so  industrial  liberty  does  not  mean  freedom  from 
labor,  but  freedom  in  labor.  For  this  right  of  self- 
directive  labor,  or,  in  the  terms  of  this  paper,  for  the  right 
of  play,  the  modern  world  is  battling.  Disguise  the  situa- 
tion as  we  may,  the  industrial  world  is  in  a  state  of  war- 
fare. Various  compromises  have  been  agreed  upon, 
whereby  a  partial  freedom  is  enjoyed.  Thus,  we  dis- 
tinguish between  our  activities ;  setting  aside  a  portion 
of  the  day  to  toil  and  drudge,  yielding  this  much  to  sub- 
mission, hoping  to  escape  at  night,  when  we  can  indulge 
our  higher  desires  and  live  a  moment  spontaneously  and 
instinctively.  Meanwhile,  we  clamor  for  shorter  hours 
of  labor  and  a  longer  time  for  play.  So  long  as  labor  is 
under  bonds,  untransformed  by  freedom,  so  long  will 
this  division  and  clamor  continue.  But  the  granting  of 
an  eight-hour  day  is  no  real  solution  of  the  problem.  It 
is  simply  compromise  and  leaves  the  situation  unchanged. 
The  only  satisfactory  solution  of  the  labor  problem  lies 
in  the  consecration  of  labor  to  the  ends  of  life,  to  the 
ends  of  personality.  Toil  is  a  "curse"  to  none  but  slaves. 
To  a  freeman  it  is  pleasure  and  desire.  Conditions  must 
so  be  changed  that  the  laborer  can  find  in  his  very  work 
his  genuine  satisfaction.  He  must  be  granted  the  privi- 
lege now  enjoyed  by  the  artist  only :  the  privilege  of  free 
expression,  of  self-determination,  of  ideal  creation.  Art 
and  labor  must  so  be  associated  that  the  one  be  extended 
and  made  universal  as  labor,  and  the  other  be  redeemed 
and  made  delightful  as  art.  It  was  some  such  associa- 
tion that  Thoreau  was  making,  when  he  said,  at  work  in 
his  field  of  beans:  "It  was  not  I  that  hoed  beans,  or 
beans  that  I  hoed."  He  had  in  mind  a  celestial  kind  of 
agriculture  and  was  raising  a  transcendental  crop  of 


t  JHE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLA£j  .          163 

virtues,  patience,  manliness,  clear-thougHt  and  high- 
mindedness.  It  is  better  to  produce  great  men  than 
abundant  crops.  The  reversal  of  this  proposition  as  ap- 
plied in  modern  industrialism  is  provocative  of  mirth, — 
when  one  is  not  too  angry  at  the  spectacle.  I  submit 
that  how  to  make  a  freeman  at  play  out  of  a  slave  at  work 
is  the  problem  of  history,  the  problem  of  democracy,  the 
problem  of  today. 

The  problem  of  education  in  a  democracy  is  the  same 
as  that  of  industrialism.  Shall  education  be  motived  by 
the  desire  for  a  special  culture,  a  sort  of  objective  product, 
or  for  a  special  character,  a  form  of  interior  life?  It 
seems  to  me  that  our  education  is  even  yet  too  formal  and 
objective,  too  much  concerned  with  knowledge  and  ma- 
chinery, and  not  enough  with  character.  The  ideal  pre- 
vailing in  our  centers  of  education  is  that  of  the  cultured 
gentleman : — a  culture  special,  possible  to  the  few,  a  cul- 
ture dependent  upon  refinement,  intelligence  and  knowl- 
edge of  books  in  a  library,  a  culture  that  tends  to  separ- 
ate men,  that  erects  barriers  between  the  wise  and  the 
not-wise,  that  is  selfish  and  unsocial.  This  is  an  ideal 
which  we  have  inherited  from  feudal  countries  and  from 
the  theory  of  the  leisure  class.  The  cultured  man,  in  fine, 
is  prepared  to  live  in  an  aristocracy  and  not  in  a  democ- 
racy. His  sympathies  are  untouched.  His  im- 
agination is  without  vitality.  His  fellows  have 
no  interest  to  him  save  as  they  are  comprehended 
in  the  same  exclusive  circle.  However  attractive  the 
ideal  may  be,  it  is  destined  to  fade  away  before  the  slowly 
unfolding  meanings  of  democracy, — fade  as  the  ideals  of 
kings  and  knights  and  priests  have  faded  and  become  lost 
in  the  distance.  Democracy  demands  a  man  of  generous 


164  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

sympathies,  with  imaginative  if  not  actual  community 
in  every  experience,  a  genuine  social  being,  "a  fluid  and 
attaching  character :"  one  capable  of  living,  not  in  an  ex- 
clusive aristocratic  coterie,  but  in  an  inclusive  democratic 
society,  and  one  able  to  live  at  large,  not  with  conde- 
scension, but  with  full  sympathy.  Now,  personality  is 
the  one  common  possession  of  all  men — this  is  the  com- 
prehensive and  unifying  principle.  It  is  of  no  account  to 
hold  men  together  by  a  written  constitution.  A  nation 
is  compacted  by  love  and  sympathy.  Extend  the  essence 
of  each  until  he  comes  to  include  the  multitude;  until 
his  right  becomes  the  right  of  all,  and  his  law  the 
law  of  all.  Produce  great  men;  the  rest  follows.  Edu- 
cate the  interior  man ;  avoid  the  ceremonial ;  educate  for 
freedom,  self-control,  ideal  action,  creative  character. 

It  was  not  without  reason  that  Lincoln  was  called  by 
Lowell  "The  First  American."  For  this  man  was  the 
very  embodiment  of  the  democratic  idea.  He  had  a 
culture  that  was  as  broad  as  life,  as  generous  as  love. 
Frederick  Douglas  said  of  him :  "He  was  the  first  man  in 
whose  presence  I  forgot  I  was  a  negro."  That  is  a 
sublime  testimony,  and  signifies  what  I  mean  by  an  in- 
clusive character.  Lincoln  was  not  educated  in  our 
schools.  The  college  might  have  instructed  him,  but 
it  would  have  destroyed  him.  Democracy  contemplates 
the  possibility  of  education  through  the  simple  life  pro- 
cesses, or  at  least,  through  the  expert  selection  of  those 
especially  fitted  for  education.  Lincoln's  associate  in 
democratism  was  Whitman,  a  man  who  escaped  the  tra- 
ditional discipline  of  the  schools,  but  who,  in  secret 
striving  for  the  culture  of  life,  achieved  a  character  that 
so  combined  the  intellectual  and  the  sympathetic,  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  PLAY  165 

individual  and  the  social,  that  in  his  own  personality  he 
comprehended  humanity.    If  Lincoln  was  the  only  man, 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  is  the  only  book  to  which  Douglas 
might  come  and   find  himself  sympathetically  compre- 
hended.    One  of  the  greatest  lines  in  modern  literature 
is   Whitman's  address  to  the  poor  outcast:    "Not  till 
the  sun  excludes  you  do  I  exclude  you."    In  one  of  his 
poems,  he  proclaims  the  ideal  of  life  in  a  democracy: 
"I   announce   natural   persons   to   arise. 
I  announce  uncompromising  liberty  and  equality. 
I  announce  splendors  and  majesties  to  make  all  previous  politics 

of  the  earth  insignificant. 

I  announce  adhesiveness,  I  say  it  shall  be  limitless,  unloosen'd, 
I  announce  the  great  individual,  fluid  as  nature,  chaste,  affec- 
tionate, compassionate,  fully  arm'd. 

I  announce  a  life  that  shall  be  copious,  vehement,  spiritual,  bold, 
I   announce  an  end  that  shall  lightly  and  joyfully  meet  its 
translation." 

The  educational  problem  presented  by  the  lives  of  these 
two  men,  the  first  practical  democrats  the  world 
has  known,  is  profound  and  not  easily  solved.  They  rep- 
resent the  ideal  around  which  the  sympathies  and  im- 
agination of  men  must  henceforth  gather.  They  exhibit 
a  special  development  of  personality  and  to  their  making 
ages  of  history  have  gone.  Dare  we  face  this  ideal? 
Might  not  education  assist  the  individual  through  some 
method  of  self-activity?  Might  we  not  adopt  for  our 
whole  educational  system  the  principle  of  play  ?  Man  has 
something  to  learn,  something  to  receive,  but  also  some- 
thing to  give  and  achieve.  The  educational  watchword 
of  a  former  generation,  the  generation  of  culture,  was 
discipline.  The  watchword  of  the  present,  the  genera- 
tion of  knowledge,  is  observation.  Might  not  the  future, 


160  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  generation  of  personality,  take  for  its  sign  the  watch- 
word, play?  The  need  of  the  hour  is  education  by  exe- 
cution, by  creation,  by  modes  of  self-realization — con- 
trolled always  by  the  motive  of  helpfulness.  By  such 
modes  alone  the  personality  is  extended  and  the  individual 
rounded  full-circle. 

The  beginnings  of  such  education  have  been  made  in 
the  kindergarten ;  this  being  the  latest,  the  most  modern 
in  spirit  and  most  democratic  section  of  our  educational 
system.  This  is  the  children's  age,  and  a  little  child 
is  leading  us  away  from  formalism  and  traditionalism, 
and  compelling  a  more  sincere  study  of  the  actual  field. 
In  the  kindergarten  the  principle  of  play  is  frankly 
adopted.  The  application  of  the  principle  in  the  upper 
grades,  where  traditional  ideas  are  entrenched,  has  yet 
to  be  accomplished.  By  the  introduction  of  manual 
training,  which  is  only  a  name  for  the  educational  prin- 
ciple of  self-activity,  a  means  of  self-expression  is  af- 
forded the  older  pupils.  In  the  more  progressive  schools 
there  is  taking  place  a  reconstruction  of  the  school  pro- 
gram with  the  various  art  studies  as  the  coordinating 
center.  Vacation  schools  in  the  larger  cities  are  experi- 
menting with  the  new  ideas,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that 
the  success  of  their  freer  methods  will  bring  about  ex- 
tensive modifications  of  the  traditional  curricula.  All 
these  are  signs  of  the  evolution  of  play;  of  the  effort 
made  by  modern  man  to  adopt  social  forms  to  current 
idea. 

That  this  adjustment  of  man  to  his  immediate  environ- 
ment will  continue  in  all  the  fields  of  human  endeavor, 
there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt.  The  evolutionary  forces 
are  always  at  work.  Nature  creates  today,  as  in  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PLAY  167 

early  ages  of  the  world.  Man's  creative  power  is  deep- 
ening and  widening.  There  are  many  evidences  of  in- 
crease in  personality,  most  notably,  perhaps,  in  the  arts 
which  still  afford  the  field  of  purest  play.  I  refer  par- 
ticularly to  the  instance  of  music,  the  art  at  present 
in  most  rapid  process  of  development,  the  one  most  cap- 
able of  bearing  the  high  emotionalism  and  the  complex 
idealism  of  the  modern  world.  The  history  of  music 
shows  that  an  enormous  distance  has  been  passed  from 
Mozart  to  Brahms.  Once  the  former  was  thought  to 
have  reached  the  perfection  of  composition.  Then  came 
Beethoven  with  newer  modes.  Then  followed  Wagner 
and  Brahms  and  Richard  Strauss,  each  adding  some- 
thing to  the  expressiveness  of  music.  Today,  Mozart  is 
simple,  hardly  interesting,  apprehensible  to  a  child. 
Wagner  is  now  at  the  point  of  full  reception.  But  few 
have  the  capacity  to  follow  the  complexities  of  the  latest 
composers.  But  will  not  Brahms  be  as  simple  to  the 
ordinary  ear,  as  Mozart  is  now  to  the  critical  musician? 
What  does  this  growth  in  apprehension  signify,  if  not 
that  the  race  is  advancing  farther  and  farther  into  the 
interior  region,  where  harmonies  are  realized  and  ideals 
formed  ? 

In  conclusion,  the  matter  may  be  summed  up  by  saying 
that,  at  every  stage  of  his  being,  man  has  possessed  an 
ideal  self-determined  life,  existing  side  by  side  with  but 
apart  from  his  life  as  conditioned  by  material  needs. 
The  origin  of  this  freedom  is  lost  in  the  dim  evolutionary 
regions ;  the  poets  and  scientists  postulate  a  certain  de- 
gree of  sentient  life  in  the  material  atom.  Certainly,  the 
higher  animals  experience  a  degree  of  freedom.  In  such 
moments,  they  engage  in  play.  In  the  lower  grades  of 


168  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

life,  this  activity  is  merely  play ;  in  the  higher  grades, 
it  takes  the  rational  and  significant  form  of  artistic  cre- 
ation. 

In  some  future  golden  age,  foretold  by  poets  and 
prophets,  it  may  be  that  all  work  will  be  play,  all  speech 
will  be  song,  and  joy  will  be  universal. 


DEMOCRATIC  EDUCATION. 

I. 

The  life  of  an  organism  is  preserved  and  fulfilled 
through  its  right  adjustment  to  environment.  If  the 
organism  fail  to  accommodate  itself  to  its  conditions  it 
is  doomed  to  a  life  of  tragic  conflict,  a  weakness  increas- 
ing to  decay,  and  to  final  extinction.  The  school  is  an 
agency  devised  by  the  social  intelligence  or  instinct  to 
prepare  the  young  organism  for  more  effective  exist- 
ence. Its  function  is  two-fold :  First,  to  enable  the  young 
to  appropriate  the  inheritance  which  the  past  bequeaths ; 
and,  second,  to  hasten  and  facilitate  their  adjustment  to 
present  conditions  and  future  growths.  The  first  service, 
being  fairly  constant,  tends  to  maintain  in  all  educational 
institutions  that  conservatism  which  so  irritates  the  pro- 
gressive educator  whose  attention  is  given  to  the  work  of 
readjustment.  From  the  conditions  of  the  problem  it 
must  be  seen  that  the  stability  of  institutionalism  is  over- 
come at  the  fulfillment  of  the  first  function.  After  that 
everything  is  subject  to  change  according  to  the  varia- 
tion of  the  social  environment.  It  is  at  this  point  that 
institutionalism  may  become  pernicious  and  subversive. 
A  given  system  becomes  conventionalized,  loses  vitality, 
ceases  to  move  with  the  times,  educates  for  conditions 
long  outgrown,  retards  progress,  and  enslaves  the  very 
life  that  created  it.  Then  the  Promethean  soul  is  bound  ta 
the  rocks  and  tyrannized  over  by  the  Jupiter  of  custom. 


170  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

But  evermore,  wise  through  its  pains,  it  destroys  the  order 
of  routine  and  shapes  its  life  anew.  Meanwhile,  the  ac- 
credited institution  is  upheld  at  an  enormous  waste  of 
energy.  Individual  organisms  have  been  subverted  and 
destroyed.  The  so-called  "graduates"  of  schools,  in  order 
to  be  effective  in  their  environment,  are  required  not 
infrequently  to  overcome  the  disability  of  their  education. 
If  the  individual  is  weak  it  drags  out  a  wretched  life, 
querulous,  dyspeptic,  and  finally  perishes.  I  think  the 
life  that  goes  out  on  battle  fields  is  a  small  measure  of  the 
energy  wasted  in  schools.  The  tragedy  of  the  "educated 
man"  is  perhaps  the  most  pathetic  under  the  sun ;  a 
tragedy  not  less  grievous  because  of  its  frequency.  And 
of  these  tragic  misfits  the  schools  of  today,  by  reason  of 
peculiar  conditions  of  transition,  are  furnishing  an  un- 
ending line.  Our  traditions,  as  those  bearing  upon 
"school  discipline"  and  "school  studies,"  have  reference 
to  military,  priestly,  scholastic,  or  other  special  ideals 
of  times  long  past ;  whereas  the  necessity  of  the  day  is 
for  a  genuine  social  being,  with  varied  practical  and 
industrial  capacities,  generous  democratic  sympathies, 
and  inclusive  as  light.  "Where  does  the  great  city 
stand?"  asks  Whitman. 

"Where  no  monuments  exist  to  heroes,  but  in  the  common  words 

and  deeds, 

Where  the  men  and  women  think  lightly  of  the  laws, 
Where  the   slave  ceases   and  the   master  of   slaves  ceases, 
Where  outside  authority  enters  always  after  the  precedence  of 

inside    authority, 
There  the  great  city  stands." 

The  question  thus  viewed  is  an  important  one,  not  to  be 


DEMOCRATIC   EDUCATION  171 

lightly  passed :  How  shall  the  schools  educate  in  view  of 
"triumphant  democracy?"  I  venture  to  discuss  this  topic 
in  three  of  its  phases:  (i)  The  personal  ideal  to  which 
the  modern  man  owes  allegiance ;  (2)  The  social  ideal  to 
which  the  school  should  conform ;  (3)  The  school  work 
calculated  to  accomplish  the  ends  desired. 


II 


My  general  thesis  may  be  stated  first  in  abstract  terms. 
The  conditions  of  democracy  require  an  education  that 
shall  be  directed  to  the  equipment  of  the  individual  in 
respect  of  his  self-sovereignty  on  the  one  hand  and  of 
his  socialism  on  the  other.  The  individual,  who  shall  be 
fitted  to  live  in  a  democratic  community,  must  be  taught 
to  control  himself  as  a  "simple,  separate  person"  and  to 
govern  his  conduct  with  reference  to  his  place  in  the 
social  system.  Neither  phase  of  his  character  can  be 
safely  neglected.  Of  the  two  sides,  however,  the  individ- 
ialistic  would  seem  to  be  the  more  important,  for  true 
self-realization  is  both  individualistic  and  social.  By  the 
realization  and  continual  enlargement  of  the  self — a  self 
that  is  in  its  very  nature  social — the  individual  comes  to 
include  the  multitude  and  his  right  becomes  their  right 
and  his  law  their  law.  A  genuine  federation  of  men  is 
not  to  be  accomplished  by  the  written  agreement  of 
lawyers,  but  only  through  the  identification  in  ideas  and 
interests  of  the  separate  members  of  the  groups  and 
communities.  A  perfect  democracy  is  possible  only  with 
persons  who  are  completely  developed  in  every  aspect  of 
personality,  and  able  therefore  to  substitute  an  inner  for 


172  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

an  outer  bond  of  union.    Create  great  individuals,  estab- 
lish the  right  personal  ideal — the  rest  follows. 

When  viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  the  democratic 
man,  the  various  ideals  about  which  the  imagination  and 
sympathies  of  men  have  gathered  in  times  past — the 
military  ideal,  the  priestly  ideal,  the  cultural  ideal — all 
fall  short  of  measuring  the  status  of  the  true  man  of  the 
age.  The  military  ideal,  formed  when  the  world  was 
a  great  soldiers'  camp,  was  the  necessary  concomitant 
and  support  of  thrones  and  empires.  Chivalry,  furnish- 
ing opportunity  for  spiritual  strivings,  was  the  beauty 
and  perfume  that  attracted  to  a  rigorous  ideal  the  souls 
of  finer  nurture,  and  through  the  ages  life  has  been 
construed  by  poets  and  thinkers  in  terms  of  warfare — 
terms  that  have  become  the  very  counters  of  our  speech 
and  determine  the  texture  of  our  thinking.  From  an 
ideal  so  universal  it  is  difficult  for  anyone  to  escape. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  an  ideal  outgrown  and  should  be  ut- 
terly abandoned.  It  enforces  principles  of  obedience  to 
the  will  of  others  in  authority  and  interferes  with  the  true 
self-activity  proper  for  the  democratic  man.  Upon  the 
model  of  the  military  all  religious  systems  and  moral 
tenets  have  been  formed,  not  excepting  those  of  the  more 
recent  Protestant  churches,  whose  devotion  to  bishops 
or  Bibles  or  creeds  betrays  their  acceptance  of  the  mili- 
tary principle.  It  is  a  simple  fact  that  the  religious 
life  of  all  peoples  today  is  grounded  in  authority  of  some 
kind.  The  success  of  the  Salvation  Army  is  an  evidence 
of  an  attitude  of  mind  that  would  seem  to  be  almost 
universal  in  matters  pertaining  to  religion.  Yet  priest- 
craft in  all  forms  is  destined  to  pass  away :  the  army  or- 
ganization, the  word  of  command,  the  obligation  of 


DEMOCRATIC   EDUCATION  173 

service,  the  deputed  authority — all  must  pass.  The  ideal 
of  culture  is  based,  likewise,  pn  privilege.  Learning  has 
always  been  the  special  instrument  of  priestcraft.  In 
the  middle  ages  learning  was  a  practical  monopoly,  the 
possession  of  those  who  held  the  symbols  of  knowledge. 
It  was  the  avenue  to  place  and  dignity.  Even  Dante 
thought  it  more  worthy  to  be  learned  than  to  be  a  poet. 
The  egotism  of  culture  is  not  less  striking  today  at  the 
seats  of  learning.  Culture  is  exclusive  and  unsympathet- 
ic. We  erect  barriers  between  the  wise  and  the  not- 
wise.  It  is,  in  fact,  obtainable  only  by  the  few.  Appro- 
priate to  the  ends  of  a  selfish  aristocracy  it  is  destruct- 
ive of  that  good  fellowship  requisite  for  a  democracy. 
Democracy  demands  men  and  women  who  are  capable 
of  self-rule  and  who,  at  the  same  time,  are  able  to  com- 
prehend the  experiences  of  other  persons  sufficient  to 
respect  their  will.  All  ideals  that  spring  from  authority 
or  eventuate  in  privilege  must  yield  to  one  that  is  free 
and  fluid. 

For  the  uses  of  democracy  there  must  be  produced 
great  individuals  "fluid  as  nature,  chaste,  affectionate, 
compassionate,  fully  arm'd."  To  this  end  the  imagination 
and  sympathies  of  men  must  become  associated  with 
the  culture  of  life  rather  than  with  the  learning  of  schools. 
To  hold  up  the  ideal  of  a  special  class — any  ideal  short 
of  the  entire  personality,  is  to  retard  the  progress  of 
democracy  by  neutralizing  its  effects. 


III. 
As  the  ideal  of  life  is  not  submissiveness  or  perfection 


174  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

of  conduct  or  intellectual  distinction  but  social  sympathy 
or  breadth  of  experience,  the  test  of  the  school  is  its  sensi- 
tiveness to  social  influence.  It  becomes  the  mission  of  the 
school  to  correct  the  gross  egotism  of  youth  that  displays 
itself  in  strife  for  preferment,  in  eager  pursuit  of  prizes 
of  distinction,  by  inculcating  principles  of  mutual  depend- 
ence and  developing  a  sense  of  social  obligation.  The 
degree  of  relationship  felt  by  the  members  of  a  school 
for  each  other  and  for  the  community  of  which  they  are 
a  part  becomes  the  real  test  of  efficiency.  The  school,  in 
its  true  modern  meaning,  is  not  a  group  of  persons  with- 
drawn from  society  for  a  period  to  the  end  of  preparing 
for  society  when  the  school  years  are  finished,  but  a  com- 
munity whose  activities  are  ordered  according  to  their 
place  in  the  evolution  of  life.  The  home  with  its  varied 
adult  interests  affords  little  opportunity  for  the  child's 
self-expression.  Into  the  world  of  business,  motives  other 
than  educational  enter  to  affect  character.  The  school 
provides  community  of  interest  and  rightly  conducted, 
freed  at  once  from  the  domestic  and  economic  environ- 
ments, becomes  the  child's  true  home,  where  the  bodily 
activities  may  be  trained,  where  shy  emotions  may  emerge 
and  vague  thoughts  define  themselves,  and  where  the 
sense  of  kinship  with  others,  implicit  in  the  home,  may 
enlarge  to  the  outer  circumference  of  the  social  environ- 
ment. To  isolate  the  child,  to  require  him  to  be 
silent,  to  restrict  his  play,  to  destroy  spontaneity,  to 
teach  him  to  be  passive  and  accept  authority,  is  to  per- 
petuate feudalism.  Only  when  the  rigid  book  is  laid 
aside,  the  law  relaxed,  the  child  surrounded  by  other 
children  in  free  commerce,  when  all  are  permitted  to 
question  and  probe  with  eager  interest,  permitted  to 


DEMOCRATIC   EDUCATION  175 

be  active  and  creative — only  then  is  there  chance   for 
republics. 

From  the  school  as  a  whole  proceed  other  lines 
of  relationship.  Under  conditions  of  exclusiveness, 
such  as  colleges  formerly  maintained,  an  antagonism 
between  the  "town"  and  the  "gown"  is  inevitably 
occasioned.  The  presumption  of  the  gown  is  met  by 
the  scorn  of  the  town.  The  scholar,  separated  from 
the  vital  currents,  shrinks  to  a  pedant;  the  citizen, 
missing  the  leadership  of  thought,  swells  out  to  a 
boor.  In  true  community  life  each  needs  the  other, 
the  one  that  his  abstractions  may  be  tested  by  life, 
the  other  that  life  may  have  meaning.  There  is  noth- 
ing so  dead  as  dead  knowledge;  there  is  nothing  so 
vapid  as  a  purposeless  life. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  social  training,  the  fail- 
ure of  the  military,  priestly  and  cultural  ideals  is  to 
be  noted.  For  they  are  essentially  non-social  and  by 
enforcing  the  external  and  mechanical  dependency 
of  one  mind  upon  another  tend  to  break  up  that  so- 
cial connection  founded  upon  sympathy.  Graphically 
these  older  ideals  assume  the  form  of  a  pyramid  upon 
the  apex  of  which  but  the  favored  few  can  subsist. 
They  imply  rank  and  gradation  fatal  to  community 
life.  To  the  military  ideal  belong  all  the  irrational 
restrictions  incident  to  "school  discipline"  that  tend 
to  destroy  individuality  of  action — restrictions  in  re- 
spect of  natural  speech  and  spontaneous  play  accord- 
ing to  the  tyranny  of  the  teacher.  The  priest  depends 
upon  some  form  of  revelation  and  according  to  his 
authority  separates  between  the  good  and  the  not 
good.  Culture  confirms  the  tyranny  of  the  book  and 


176  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

compels  in  the  reader  the  passive  attitude  of  listen- 
ing. In  these  ideals  there  is  no  place  for  self-expres- 
sion or  for  that  unity  that  springs  from  a  community 
of  interests. 

The  social  motive  has  hardly  emerged  as  yet  into 
educational  consciousness.  Among  the  newer  move- 
ments the  "Vacation  School"  is  especially  significant. 
Under  the  excuse  of  a  vacation  the  ordinary  discipline 
is  relaxed,  the  usual  routine  abandoned,  the  book  set 
aside,  the  formal  and  mechanical  relegated  to  a  sec- 
ondary place.  Active  and  self-directive  factors  are 
introduced.  Sessions  are  conducted  in  the  open  air. 
Nature  is  studied  at  first  hand.  The  governing  watch- 
words are  Impression  and  Expression.  The  children 
in  some  degree  seek  their  own  ends — the  school  run- 
ning parallel  with  life  itself.  From  these  experiments 
in  free  methods  it  will  doubtless  be  discovered  that 
the  pupil  in  his  spontaneous  and  creative  moments  is 
a  better  educational  guide  than  the  teacher  burdened 
by  the  feudal  traditions.  And  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely 
that  the  spirit  of  vacation  will  spread  until  it  perme- 
ates the  entire  school  system. 

Along  more  definite  and  conscious  lines  of  school 
development  an  experiment  in  genuine  democratic 
education  was  conducted  by  Professor  John  Dewey 
at  the  elementary  school  formerly  in  connection  with 
the  University  of  Chicago.  The  passage  from  the 
aristocratic,  the  principle  of  dependency  and  passiv- 
ity, to  the  democratic,  the  principle  of  originality  and 
activity,  was  there  at  length  completed.  The  tra- 
ditional equipment,  desks,  books,  studies,  monoton- 
ous recitations,  examinations,  uniform  courses  and 


DEMOCRATIC  EDUCATION  177 

classes,  teachers  in  authority, — all  these  were  conspic- 
uous in  their  absence.  In  their  stead  were  means  for 
occupations — for  doing  things.  The  school  started 
with  the  natural  resources  of  the  child  and  built  upon 
his  own  interest  and  desires — his  threefold  interest 
in  discovery,  communication,  and  construction,  his 
desire  to  find  out  things,  to  tell  things,  and  to  make 
things.  In  the  traditional  and  feudal  school  the  centre 
of  gravity  is  outside  the  child — in  the  teacher,  the 
book,  the  recitation,  or  the  examination;  here  the  cen- 
tre was  found  in  the  child  himself.  A  child  in  acting 
individualizes  himself  and  forbids  the  formation  of 
classes.  He  desires,  however,  to  communicate  his 
experiences  to  others  and  to  receive  criticism  or  fur- 
ther suggestion  for  work.  The  "recitation"  springing 
from  this  need  has  the  child  still  at  the  centre.  For 
the  doing  of  things  the  child  needs  knowledge — but 
only  the  knowledge  that  is  related  to  his  need.  Ob- 
stacles confront  him  in  carrying  out  his  idea  into 
concrete  form ;  his  struggles  with  his  materials  consti- 
tute his  "discipline,"  his  training  in  attention,  con- 
centration and  will.  Some  organization  such  as  is  nec- 
essary for  community  life  is  effected;  from  it  arises 
unification  and  the  sense  of  the  social  whole.  The 
school  is  a  miniature  society. 

In  so  far  as  these  experiments  in  the  new  education 
witness  to  a  general  tendency  they  disclose  the  mod- 
ern transition  from  authority  to  freedom,  from  what 
is  mechanical  and  enforced  to  what  is  natural  and 
desired.  The  new  factor  in  education  is  simply  the 
discovery  that  life  itself  is  education:  that  the  school 
is  itself  social. 


178  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

IV. 

The  subjects  calculated  to  develop  the  democratic  in- 
dividual and  to  effect  the  socialization  of  the  school 
are  manifestly  the  constructive  ones.  The  foundation 
of  modern  education  should  be  industrial.  And  as  the 
most  educative  form  of  industry  is  that  pertaining  to 
art  the  central  activities  will  be  artistic.  The  arts 
aim  to  give  expression  to  thought  and  experience.  The 
realization  of  experience  in  art  forms  involves  creation 
through  self-determined  activity.  The  peculiarity  of 
art  is  that  it  is  in  part  a  discipline,  in  part  a  science, 
but  in  largest  measure  a  creation,  the  objectification 
of  feeling  or  idea.  Hence  its  immense  educational  value. 

The  best  type  of  the  creative  arts  is  music.  Music 
is  free  creation :  it  makes  no  reference  to  natural  forms 
and  is  not,  therefore,  a  product  of  sensation.  Being 
artificial  and  conventional  it  becomes  the  sole  crea- 
tion of  the  inner  being.  It  exposes  the  very  motions  of 
the  soul  and  is  the  personality  in  its  barest  guise.  For 
a  musical  idea  has  two  elements,  melody  and  har- 
mony, each  of  which  must  first  be  conceived  and  dis- 
played in  the  musical  consciousness  and  then  developed 
from  within  outward.  The  working  out  of  these  con- 
ceptions from  consciousness  to  form  gives  the  best 
type  of  conceptive  development. 

The  plastic  arts  are  conceptive  in  development  but  de- 
pend more  upon  imitation.  Architecture,  however,  is 
more  like  music,  an  art  of  idea.  Painting  takes  its  rise 
both  in  idea  and  in  nature.  It  is  therefore  at  once 
creative  and  imitative.  But  painting  may  be  employed 
in  education  by  making  the  exhibition  of  the  self 


DEMOCRATIC  EDUCATION  179 

primary  and  letting  the  form  occupy  a  subordinate 
place,  as  indeed  it  does  in  the  best  art. 

Literature,  having  language  as  its  medium,  furnishes 
one  of  the  best  means  of  self-expression.  Literature 
serves  not  only  the  ends  of  creation  but  in  its  recorded 
forms  affords  the  finest  exercise  for  the  creative  imag- 
ination in  interpretation.  Fiction,  for  instance,  is  con- 
densed human  experience.  It  records  motives,  dis- 
plays the  operation  of  cause  and  effect,  analyzes  char- 
acter, portrays  actual  or  ideal  states  of  society.  To 
read  fiction  with  sympathy  is  to  enter  into  the  history 
of  the  world  and  to  repeat  the  processes  of  the 
mind.  To  the  development  of  personality  literature 
must  so  be  presented  that  a  vital  experience  results 
from  the  contact  rather  than  lifeless  knowledge  to 
encumber  the  memory.  The  democratization  of  art 
means  its  use  as  an  energizing  and  creative  power. 

In  close  connection  with  the  fine  arts,  but  employing 
a  slightly  different  set  of  activities  and  interests,  is 
the  group  of  the  industrial  arts,  or  what  is  more  fa- 
miliarly known  as  the  "arts  and  crafts."  The  pure 
conceptive  process  is  here  interfered  with  by  the  neces- 
sity of  use.  But  the  more  stubborn  the  material  which 
the  hand  must  shape  the  greater  the  training  in  con- 
centration and  power.  Considering  the  bearing  of 
such  training  on  both  the  arts  and  the  crafts,  the  nec- 
essary association  of  the  artistic  and  industrial  tempera- 
ments, the  social  value  of  a  School  of  Craft  can  hardly 
be  overestimated.  Some  day  the  education  of  a  man 
will  be  measured  by  his  capacity  to  do  things  rather  than 
by  his  knowledge  or  his  receptive  faculty.  I  think  no 
one  will  deny  the  attainment  of  William  Morris,  who 


180  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

was  called  derisively  the  poet-upholsterer,  but  who 
thought  good  upholstery  was  quite  as  important  as 
good  poetry. 

The  ordinary  trades  that  have  only  economic  bearing 
have  less  educational  value  than  work  that  admits  of 
conception.  Under  higher  ideals  of  life,  and  with 
the  increased  use  of  machinery  for  the  tasks  involv- 
ing mere  power,  the  skilled  workman  will  tend  to  rise 
to  the  plane  of  educational  industry. 

To  constructive  work  the  instructional  studies  now 
primary  will  be  subordinated.  Geography  and  history 
are  the  most  essential  of  the  related  interests.  For 
it  is  possible  to  pursue  these  studies  actively  and  to 
realize  in  imagination  the  historical  life  of  nature  and 
man.  "The  student,"  said  Emerson,  "is  to  read  his- 
tory actively  and  not  passively,  to  esteem  his  own  life 
the  text,  and  books  the  commentary..  All  history  is 
subjective;  there  is  properly  no  history,  only  biog- 
raphy." 

But  to  elaborate  a  course  of  construction  to  take  the 
place  of  the  present  course  of  instruction,  or  to  name 
the  employments  to  be  substituted  for  the  traditional 
studies,  is  beyond  my  intention.  My  purpose  is  to  in- 
sist that  education  to  be  democratized  must  follow  the 
lines  of  action  and  expression. 

Democracy,  to  summarize,  presents  to  the  individual 
a  new  ideal  of  culture,  establishes  a  new  relationship 
among  all  the  members  of  the  social  group,  and  prom- 
ises to  displace  the  disciplinary  studies  and  methods 
by  the  introduction  of  a  new  activity  and  a  new  method 
that  approximate  the  play-principle  of  the  creative 
artist. 


"WHERE  IS  THE  POET?" 

Soon  after  the  assassination  of  President  McKinley  at 
Buffalo,  a  question  was  raised  in  a  public  journal  with 
reference  to  the  celebration  of  the  event:  "Where  is  the 
Poet  ?"  As  a  preface  to  the  question  the  factors  tending 
to  make  the  incident  worthy  of  poetic  treatment  were 
enumerated : 

"The  tragedy  at  Buffalo  sounded  the  whole  gamut  of  human 
emotions.  Love,  hate,  fear,  anger,  sympathy,  compassion — all  the 
primal  passions  were  aroused.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
dramatic  than  the  spectacle  of  a  single,  cowardly,  skulking  wretch 
throwing  a  nation  into  tears.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
pathetic  than  the  deep,  yet  hopeful,  silence  in  which  the  people 
waited  for  the  news  from  Buffalo.  Nothing  could  be  more  inspir- 
ing than  the  way  in  which  they  rallied  from  the  shock  and  faced  the 
future  with  the  confidence  that  'God  reigns  and  the  government  at 
Washington  still  lives.'  Nowhere  was  ever  given  a  more  beautiful 
example  of  devotion  than  that  which  bound  together  the  President 
and  his  wife.  Never  was  a  deathbed  illumined  more  brightly  by 
the  light  of  Christian  hope  and  faith.  There  was  everything  to 
inspire  the  poet." 

That  the  theme  was  not  lacking  in  elements  of  sub- 
limity is  proved  by  the  witness  of  another  journalist : 

"Let  us  think,  if  we  can,  of  the  solitudes  of  mighty  forests; 
imagine  as  we  may  the  majestic  sweep  of  storm-driven  clouds  lit 
with  the  forked  flame  of  lightning;  let  us  recall  the  mystic  roar 
of  the  tireless  Niagara;  climb  in  imagination  the  solitary  heights 
of  mountain  fields;  let  the  mind  follow  the  measureless  ranges  of 
earth's  great  highlands,  the  Rockies,  the  Andes,  the  Himalayas, 


182  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

and  still  'the  sublimity  and  the  solemnity  of  all  these  fade  into 
insignificance  compared  with  this  more  sublime  and  mystic  mani- 
festation of  the  life  in  common  that  summons  a  tearful  nation 
around  an  open  grave." 

Though  the  pages  of  magazines  teemed  at  the  time  with 
verses  of  a  certain  order  of  merit,  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged that  the  first  poem  worthy  the  subject  has  yet  to 
appear.  Where,  then,  was  the  poet?  Was  the  theme  too 
large,  was  the  event  too  near  for  poetic  treatment  ?  No — 
for  its  scope  was  immediately  perceived,  as  is  indicated 
by  the  quotations  given  above.  We  must  search  else- 
where for  an  explanation  of  the  poet's  silence.  May  it 
not  be  that  the  time  has  passed  when  deeds  require  special 
poetical  celebration?  Another  question  obtrudes  itself: 
"What  is  the  need  of  the  poet?  If  all  the  elements  that 
constitute  an  incident  poetic  are  perceived  by  the  whole 
people  with  as  much  clearness  as  is  exhibited  by  the 
passages  quoted,  may  we  not  rest  in  the  greatness  of  the 
fact  and  take  the  poet's  rhetorical  skill  for  granted? 
Could  any  poet  add  anything  to  the  effects  conveyed  by 
the  headlines,  the  news  items,  and  the  illustrations  of  the 
daily  press — for  it  was  by  this  avenue  that  all  the  facts 
of  the  incident  came  to  the  consciousness  of  the  people. 
Let  it  be  remembered  that  this  is  the  twentieth  century, 
and  that  we  are  trying  in  America  to  realize  democratic 
ideals  in  literature  as  well  as  in  life.  If  democratic  poli- 
tics means  the  dispersion  of  power  among  the  people, 
may  not  democratic  aesthetics  mean  the  dispersion  of  the 
poetic  sense  among  the  same  people?  And  if  a  people  be 
sesthetically  developed,  is  not  the  special  poetic  celebra- 
tion of  deeds  rendered  unnecessary — to  the  degree,  at 
least,  of  popular  participation  in  the  deeds.  In  the  case 


"WHERE    IS   THE    POET?"  183 

referred  to  the  question  is  readily  answered:  the  ques- 
tioner is  himself  the  answer. 

But  now  this  event  in  respect  to  its  imaginative  quality 
is  but  typical  of  the  life  of  the  entire  American  people. 
I  venture  to  affirm  that  life  in  America  transcends  in 
significance  any  record  that  can  be  made  of  it.  With  us 
personality  is  so  subtle,  it  is  woven  of  so  many  racial 
strands,  it  is  blended  of  so  many  associations ;  with  us 
men  move  in  such  masses — like  ocean  tides;  with  us 
events  rise  with  such  swiftness,  they  are  knit  of  so  varied 
and  complex  relations ;  nature  itself  is  so  vast  and  expan- 
sive, furnishing  an  adequate  background  for  dramatic 
incidents :  in  short  history  in  modern  America  is  so  ener- 
gized that  persons  and  objects  assume  an  importance 
in  themselves  never  before  discerned,  an  importance  that 
is  surely  not  enhanced  by  the  straining  words  of  the  most 
stalwart  poet.  Once  admit  that  persons  and  events  may 
reach  a  state  that  they  become  themselves  poetic,  then 
the  poetry  which  is  dependent  for  its  effects  upon  the 
skill  of  a  writer  in  arranging  rhymes  and  constructing 
phrases  to  satisfy  an  exquisite  sense  for  form  seems 
unreal  and  childish.  An  ode  on  Lincoln  placed  by  the 
side  of  Lincoln  the  man  appears  an  impertinence.  What 
Lincoln  was  and  what  he  did  certainly  exceed  in  value 
what  he  wrote.  It  seems  likely  that  with  the  growth  of 
democracy  the  present  relationship  of  literature  and  life 
will  be  reversed.  Up  to  this  time  literature  has  been  the 
leader;  it  must  now  learn  to  serve.  Literature  has  been 
accorded  the  superior  position  because  it  has  been  su- 
perior. It  has  been  the  home  of  ideals  and  representative 
of  freedom.  But  life  has  been  in  bondage  to  its  own  con- 


184  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

ditions.  Unable  to  live  freely  men  have  dreamed  of  free- 
dom. Arnold  said  of  the  great  Goethe : 

"He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 
Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power; 
His  eye  plunged  clown  the  weltering  strife, 
The  turmoil  of  expiring  life: 
He  said,  The  end  is  everywhere, 
Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there!" 

So  art  has  been  the  refuge  of  the  despairing  man.  Men 
have  represented  in  art  what  they  have  desired  in  their 
inmost  soul.  Art  is  life  shaped  after  the  heart's  desire. 
European  literature  has  been  superior  to  its  life  since  the 
literature  represents  the  ideals  which  the  life  could  not 
exhibit.  Shelley's  life  was  ineffectual,  but  his  poetry 
was  prophesy.  The  poet  knew  from  experience  the  truth 
of  his  remark : 

"Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song." 

The  literature  of  Europe,  furthermore,  has  been  aristo- 
cratic and  descriptive  of  feudal  relations  because  kings 
and  nobles  have  alone  been  privileged  to  live  in  compara- 
tive freedom.  The  only  life  possible  to  depict,  such  as 
men  desired  for  themselves,  was  the  life  of  the  upper 
classes.  In  modern  and  democratic  America  the  re- 
straints are  in  some  measure  removed,  the  fetters  are 
broken,  the  energies  of  the  people  are  given  free  play, 
and  life  itself,  for  the  first  time  in  history,  becomes 
positive  and  creative.  The  industrial  supremacy  of 
America  in  the  world  to-day  arises  from  the  conditions 
of  democracy:  it  implies  first  of  all  removal  of  limita- 


"WHERE   IS   THE   POET?"  185 

tions.  Now  when  ideals  are  brought  down  into  the 
market-place  and  the  factory,  when  doing  is  more  highly 
regarded  than  dreaming,  life  itself  is  able  to  be  a  fine  art, 
tragic  or  lyric,  ordered  well  or  ill,  romantic  or  real.  Then 
it  is  possible  to  read  history  as  an  open  page:  things  be- 
come words,  the  factory  and  field  form  the  stage,  the 
workers  appear  as  heroes,  their  work  is  heard  as  a  song. 
If  the  truth  of  this  statement  be  conceded  that  life  in 
America  is  superior  to  literature,  another  question  is 
disposed  of  which  is  frequently  asked.  "When  will 
America  enter  upon  its  due  artistic  development?"  The 
thought  behind  this  question  is  of  course  that  art  is  the 
measure  of  civilization  and  any  other  form  of  culture  is 
ignoble  and  despicable.  We  shall  not  rise  to  the  rank  of 
a  great  people,  it  is  assumed,  until  upon  the  basis  of  a 
material  civilization  a  temple  of  art  be  reared.  In  this 
view  all  our  past  history  amounts  to  nothing  except  as 
a  preparation  for  artistic  products.  When  we  have 
gained  wealth  enough  to  afford  the  fullest  opportunity 
for  leisure,  then,  it  is  urged,  we  shall  proceed  to  cultivate 
the  refinements  and  humanities;  when  we  have  enacted 
our  Iliad,  the  time  will  come  for  its  recording.  It  is 
clear  that  in  the  minds  of  these  cynics  the  idea  held  of  the 
"humanities"  is  that  in  vogue  in  Europe  in  the  period  of 
aristocracy.  Then,  truly,  art  represented  the  adornment 
and  entertainment  of  the  noble  and  leisure  classes.  But 
an  art  of  this  type  is  no  longer  possible.  In  the  first 
place  the  ideal  of  life  in  a  democracy  pertains  not  to  leis- 
ure but  to  activity.  In  the  second  place  there  Is  not  the 
slightest  sign  anywhere  that  the  men  who  are  doing  the 
world's  work  are  tiring  of  their  strenuous  exercise.  We 
believe  in  work  and  are  actually  finding  in  our  work  the 


1S6  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

highest  satisfaction.  In  truth  work  is,  \vith  us,  as  has 
been  said,  "a  form  of  noble  exercise."  The  time  hoped 
for  by  the  literary  cavillers  will  never  come.  The  new 
''humanities"  relate  not  to  leisure  but  to  labor.  The 
standard  of  our  civilization  is  not  artistic  but  industrial : 
we  are  to  proceed  from  an  industry  that  is  crude  to  one 
that  is  fine,  not  from  a  condition  of  labor  without  art 
to  a  condition  of  leisure  with  art.  This  must  involve 
the  absorption  of  the  artistic  sense  in  actual  living:  it 
must  mean  that  poetry  is  to  inhere  in  what  we  do  rather 
than  in  what  we  write  :  it  must  mean  that  heroes  are  to  be 
found  in  the  men  who  walk  the  streets.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  displeased  at  the  absence  of  great  art  in  America, 
well  knowing  that  what  has  disappeared  is  not  the  essence 
but  only  the  form.  I  derive  more  satisfaction  from  the 
daily  papers  than  from  romantic  fiction  and  am  more 
pleased  with  secular  magazines  like  the  World's  Work 
than  with  literary  journals  like  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

If  I  have  interpreted  aright  the  phenomena  of  an  in- 
dustrial civilization ;  if  it  be  true  that  the  men  who  built 
cathedrals  and  wrote  great  epics  are  now  exercising 
genuine  creative  genius  in  the  field  of  work ;  if  instead  of 
discarding  a  material  civilization  it  is  the  part  of  wise 
men  to  humanize  that  civilization,  then  it  appears  to  be 
necessary  that  the  factors  existing  most  closely  in  rela- 
tion to  these  phenomena  be  held  in  higher  estimation 
than  they  have  hitherto  been.  My  thesis  is  that  in 
America,  in  democracy,  that  is,  life  itself  absorbs  the 
genius  hitherto  directed  in  artistic  lines. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  newspapers  take  on  a  new 
importance.  Their  function  is  to  convey  to  readers  the 
news  of  a  day — to  describe  the  incidents  of  the  day,  to 


"WHERE    IS   THE   POET?"  187 

picture  the  men  and  women  who  have  on  that  day  done 
some  deed  or  suffered  some  fate  worthy  of  record.  He 
who  is  unable  to  extract  romance,  tragedy,  poetry  or  truth, 
from  the  morning's  paper  is  not  yet  adjusted  to  the  con- 
ditions of  modern  life. 

Given  the  facts  of  life  as  reported  over  a  wide  area  by 
the  daily  paper,  it  is  the  function  of  the  poet  and  novelist 
to  interpret  a  select  series  of  facts  with  such  skill  that 
their  readers  discern,  as  unaided  they  are  perhaps  not  able 
to  discern,  the  inmost  reality  of  the  facts  admitted. 

One  poet  at  least  among  the  American  writers  has  fully 
comprehended  the  power  and  significance  of  fact  and 
shifted  his  ground  from  transcendentalism  to  reality. 
Walt  Whitman  is  the  first  practical  democrat  in  litera- 
ture. His  case  is  interesting  and  illustrative.  Before  he 
began  to  write  he  made  this  direction  in  his  note  book: 
"Beware  lest  your  poems  are  made  in  the  spirit  that  comes 
from  the  study  of  pictures  of  things  and  not  from  the 
spirit  that  comes  from  the  contact  with  real  things  them- 
selves." Elsewhere  he  had  declared  his  conviction  that 
modern  poets  might  take  the  same  departure  in  poetry 
that  Lord  Bacon  had  taken  in  science  and  emerge  directly 
from  nature  and  its  laws  and  from  things  and  facts — 
not  from  what  is  said  about  them,  the  stereotyped  fancies 
or  abstract  ideas  of  the  beautiful.  Hence  we  find  in  his 
poems  such  sentiments  as  these:  "I  am  enamored  of 
growing  out  of  doors ;"  "the  press  of  my  foot  to  the  earth 
springs  a  hundred  affections ;"  "a  morning-glory  at  my 
window  satisfies  me  more  than  the  metaphysics  of  books ;" 
"I  swear  there  can  be  no  theory  of  any  account  unless 
it  corroborate  the  theory  of  the  earth."  His  poems  open 


188  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

to  the  modern  world  not  only  the  theory  of  the  earth,  but 
also  that  of  space  and  time : 

"Haughty  this  cry  its  words  and  scope 
To  span  vast  realms  of  space  and  time, 
Evolution— the  cumulative  growths  and  generations." 

It  is  instructive  to  note  how  the  adoption  of  cosmical 
standards  influenced  his  poetic  method.  Trying  his  art 
by  the  concrete,  he  found  the  tests  applicable  to  his  poems 
were  of  such  exacting  character  that  he  was  freed  from 
all  ordinary  artistic  and  technical  requirements.  He 
fancied  the  ocean,  the  mountains  and  forests  putting 
their  spirit  in  a  judgment  on  his  book.  Then  upon  the 
concrete,  though  always  fluid  and  rhythmic  forms  of 
nature,  he  actually  based  his  lines.  In  certain  of  his 
catalogues  of  objects  the  presentation  of  facts  returns  al- 
most to  the  rudiments  of  perception  and  language.  But, 
plainly,  the  poetry  resides  not  in  the  words,  but  in  the 
objects.  Literary  cynics,  trained  in  the  literature  of  words, 
scoff  at  his  recitals.  And  of  course  he  who  feels  no  poetry 
in  life  or  nature  will  find  no  poetry  in  Whitman.  But  he 
to  whom  the  names  New  York,  Chicago,  San  Francisco 
convey  images  of  vast  cities  with  panoramic  views  and 
moving  tides  of  men,  will  thrill  to  Whitman's  every  page. 
And  not  only  did  Whitman  imitate  the  forms  of  nature,  but 
he  caught  its  spirit  and  expressed  himself  freely  and 
frankly.  Without  any  more  explanation,  excuse  or  se- 
lection than  the  earth  makes  in  the  unceasing  round  of 
creation,  Whitman  emulated  the  processes,  amplitudes, 
coarseness,  equilibrium  and  great  charity  of  nature.  I 
speak  here  of  Whitman  at  some  length  for  the  reason 
that  he  furnishes  the  only  complete  illustration  of  what 


"WHERE    IS   THE   POET?"  189 

literature  will  be  when  the  transition  I  have  referred  to 
in  the  first  part  of  this  paper  occurs. 

The  doom  of  romantic  fiction  has  already  been  pro- 
nounced— pronounced,  let  us  say,  by  the  "fates,"  since 
tendency  itself  forbids  its  continuance.  Nothing  can  be 
more  grotesque  and  absurd  than  the  so-called  "historic 
novel"  of  the  day — it  is  grotesque  because  it  is  unreal, 
it  is  absurd  because  it  is  opposed  to  the  whole  tendency 
of  modern  civilization.  Its  vogue  indicated  a  temporary 
insanity  of  the  public  mind.  It  rose  into  favor  during  the 
time  the  people  were  cultivating  a  barbaric  spirit  of  war. 
The  great  number  of  such  stories  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
any  third-  or  fourth-rate  writer  can  invent  an  historic 
novel.  It  requires  no  originality  to  play  with  puppets — 
no  thought  is  called  for,  no  insight  into  life,  no  experience. 
An  historic  novel  may  be  written  according  to  receipt — 
such  as  Pope  gave  in  the  eighteenth  century  for  the  com- 
position of  epics. 

The  interest  of  democracy  is  in  character  and  the 
course  of  events.  "The  life  of  man,"  said  Emerson,  "is 
the  true  romance,  which,  when  it  is  valiantly  conducted, 
will  yield  the  imagination  a  higher  joy  than  any  fiction." 
To  the  same  effect  Whitman  said :  "As  soon  as  histories 
are  properly  told  there  is  no  more  need  of  romances." 
Bernard  Shaw  regards  romance  as  "the  great  heresy  to 
be  rooted  out  from  art  and  life."  "To  me,"  he  remarks, 
"the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  life  lie  in  the  consequences, 
sometimes  terrible,  sometimes  ludicrous,  of  our  persistent 
attempt  to  found  our  institutions  on  the  ideas  suggested 
to  our  imagination  by  our  half-satisfied  passions 
instead  of  on  a  genuinely  scientific  natural  history."  So 
it  happens  that  fiction  is  the  last  place  one  would  go  to 


190  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

to  elaborate  a  natural  history.  When  Whitman  tells  the 
truth  about  life  we  are  shocked — not  because  the  things 
told  are  true,  but  because  they  are  told.  The  fault  is  not 
with  experience,  but  with  the  makers  of  literature. 

If  a  complete  record  could  be  made  of  the  life  of  any 
one  who  has  attained  distinction  in  the  world  of  affairs — 
if  a  frank  and  full  confession  were  made  of  thoughts, 
feelings,  motives  and  deeds — such  a  record  would  surpass 
in  interest  the  most  imaginative  tale  of  the  fiction 
mongers.  Yet  such  a  record  does  not  exist  in  literature. 
Ordinarily  the  man  who  does  things  cannot  write,  and  the 
man  who  writes  cannot  do  things.  Such  a  record  as  we 
have  is  dependent  upon  the  sympathetic  understanding  of 
other  lives  by  the  imaginative  writer.  David  Harum  was 
drawn  doubtless  from  a  live  model,  but  why  not  report  the 
real  life  of  an  actual  David.  Mary  MacLane  has  placed 
on  record  the  inner  history  of  her  life  for  a  given  period — 
does  it  detract  from  the  literary  interest  of  the  book  that 
Mary  MacLane  is  a  real  woman?  John  W.  Mackay 
is  dead ;  why  not  publish  his  "Life  and  Letters  ?"  I  know 
of  nothing  finer  in  literature  than  Grant's  Memoirs.  With 
a  little  encouragement  the  great  silent  men,  the  men  who 
do  things,  might  be  persuaded  to  keep  journals  and  note- 
books, to  write  familiar  letters  and  finally  to  attempt  their 
autobiographies.  The  field  of  biography  is  infinite  in 
scope  and  profound  in  its  meanings.  Upon  its  cultiva- 
tion depends  the  future  of  literature  in  America. 

At  the  present  time  it  is  the  field  of  industry  which  is 
most  open  to  the  creative  energies.  Romantic  realism  has 
passed  from  the  church,  it  has  left  the  army, 
it  is  just  disappearing  from  the  state.  It  reap- 
pears in  the  school,  but  its  manifestation  is 


"WHERE   IS   THE    POET?"  191 

most  apparent  in  business.  Speculation,  adventure,  dis- 
covery are  still  possible  in  a  business  career.  One  knows 
what  churchmen  and  statesmen  will  say  before  their 
message  is  uttered;  for  the  life  they  deal  with  is  stereo- 
typed. In  modern  industrialism  life  is  a  game,  a  form  of 
exercise,  requiring  insight,  imagination,  creative  ability, 
culture.  I  almost  envy  the  fortune  which  has  given  to 
such  writers  as  Hamlin  Garland,  Owen  Wister  and  Frank 
Norris,  the  education  necessary  to  write  characteristic 
chapters  of  the  Epic  of  the  West.  I  envy  more  the  chance 
enabling  other  men  to  play  the  role  of  epical  heroes. 
These  men  are  to  me  intensely  interesting.  I  have  just 
been  reading  a  clever  sketch  of  Charles  T.  Yerkes,  writ- 
ten by  T.  P.  O'Connor,  the  Irish  journalist.  This  is  the 
man  as  he  appears  to  a  foreign  observer : 

"A  man  rather  below  the  middle  height — with  a  heavy 
snow-white  moustache,  a  pale  complexion;  with  that 
slight  tendency  towards  an  enlarged  girth  that  comes  with 
middle  age ;  with  white  hair,  with  fine  dark  eyes,  and  with 
a  soft  voice  and  a  subdued  manner — such  is  Mr.  Yerkes. 
The  first,  indeed  the  supreme  and  most  lasting,  impres- 
sion he  makes  upon  you  is  serenity.  He  comes,  I  believe, 
of  Quaker  blood,  and  the  face  is  a  Quaker  face,  with 
that  quietism  which  is  and  always  remains  the  expres- 
sion of  the  man  or  woman  who  has  begun  life  amid  the 
prolonged  silences  and  the  stern  self-discipline  and  self- 
control  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  The  voice — soft,  low, 
never  raised  above  a  minor  key — is  in  perfect  accord  with 
the  expression ;  and  the  eyes — with  their  curious  immo- 
bility and  a  certain  sweetness,  and  last  the  least  touch  of 
mocking  humor — complete  this  picture  of  one  of  those 
silent,  quiet,  iron  men  that  rule  the  storm  and  ride  the 


192  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

cyclone  in  the  elemental  and  Titantic  wars  of  American 
industry. 

"The  pallor  of  the  complexion,  ivory  in  its  intensity,  yet 
indicates  health,  not  fragility — a  certain  distinction  and 
refinement — as  of  a  man  who  has  always  exercised  self- 
restraint,  and  who  has  never  poisoned  his  system  and 
colored  his  cheeks  with  the  flowing  wine  or  the  overboun- 
teous,  overladen  table.  And  Mr.  Yerkes  is,  indeed,  a  man 
who  has  sternly  controlled  himself.  He  never  takes  tea 
nor  coffee,  and  he  never  smokes,  though  he  may  be 
tempted  into  a  couple  of  glasses  of  light  champagne  at 
dinner.  And  yet,  with  all  this  impression  of  supreme 
serenity,  you  cannot  be  with  the  man  for  more  than  half 
an  hour  without  becoming  conscious  of  all  the  iron 
strength  there  is  behind  the  ivory  cheek,  the  soft  brown 
eye,  the  low  voice.  He  speaks  slowly,  with  something  of 
the  characteristic  American  drawl,  and  he  seems  much 
more  disposed  to  listen  than  to  talk — unless  he  finds  that 
the  atmosphere  is  sympathetic  and  appreciative  and  that 
he  can  reveal  his  inner  self. 

"And  then  you  hear  talk  worth  listening  to.  Cold, 
easy,  with  every  word  spoken  slowly  and  every  word  com- 
ing out  as  clear  cut,  as  fitted  to  the  word  that  has  pre- 
ceded and  will  follow  as  though  he  were  making  a  mosiac 
of  jewels.  Mr.  Yerkes  tells  the  tale  of  his  life;  of  his 
conflicts ;  of  his  enemies ;  of  his  friends,  and  often  leaving 
these  behind,  he  sums  up  his  theory  of  the  world  and  his 
lessons  from  life  in  some  anecdote  told  with  brevity, 
without  a  superfluous  word,  with  quiet  but  expressive 
gesture — above  all,  with  full  appreciation  of  the  dramatic 
points." 

I  rub  my  eyes  a  little  at  these  statements,  for  this  is  not 


"WHERE    IS   THE   TOET?"  103 

the  Yerkes  I  have  been  told  of  in  Chicago.  But  I  am 
ready  to  admit  that  hitherto  my  eyes  have  not  been  open. 
The  notice  concludes  after  more  detailed  characteriza- 
tion: 

"Such  is  the  man  that  has  undertaken  the  gigantic  task 
of  revolutionizing  our  methods  of  locomotion  in  London. 
Curiously  enough,  the  accumulation  of  money  has  been 
rather  an  accident  than  a  purpose  of  this  strange  and 
potent  man's  life.  He  speaks  of  tramways,  of  electric 
light,  electric  power,  with  a  quiet  passion  which  you 
might  expect  from  Mr.  John  Sargeant  talking  of  a  pic- 
ture ;  from  Paderewski  talking  of  music ;  and  when  he 
begins  to  describe  the  smoke,  the  closeness,  the  incon- 
veniences of  steam  engines  in  our  underground,  there  is 
a  look  of  positive  pain  in  his  features.  To  make  an  under- 
ground system  which  will  be  clean,  cheap,  fast,  worked 
by  electricity — a  joy  instead  of  a  horror — such  is  the  am- 
bition of  Mr.  Yerkes.  'I  have  never,'  he  said,  'interested 
myself  in  anything  but  tramways  and  traction ;  that's  my 
business,  and  I've  never  gone  one  second  outside  that 
business.  And  men  are  judged  usually  by  their  last 
work.  This  is  my  last  work ;  this  is  my  final  ambition/ 

"Such  are  my  impressions  of  that  strange,  new  portent, 
the  American  millionaire,  that,  sighing  for  new  worlds  to 
conquer,  has  come  to  London  to  reverse  our  methods,  to 
startle  and  renew  our  old  systems  and  methods,  to  bring 
to  Europe  the  gigantic  projects,  the  fearless  daring,  that 
are  so  characteristic  of  America,  with  her  rivers  that  are 
seas,  her  states  that  are  continents,  her  simple  private 
citizens  that  are  forces  more  potent  than  armies,  or  fleets, 
or  Czars." 

Such  are  the  fruits  of  democracy.    Add  to  what  is  now 


THE  CHANGING  ORDER 


known  of  men,  the  knowledge  of  nature  revealed  by 
science,  and  one  is  forced  to  admit  that  the  world  as 
modernly  conceived  transcends  in  imaginative  significance 
the  highest  fictions  of  poet  and  novelist. 


THE  NEW  DOCTRINE  OF  LABOR. 

If  it  be  true,  as  political  economists  assert,  that  an  in- 
dustrial civilization  is  now  forming1,  it  becomes  pertinent 
to  inquire  what  attitude  it  is  proper  to  assume  towards 
labor — towards  that  which  is  necessarily  central  in  such 
a  civilization.  It  is  manifestly  impossible  to  build  up  a 
civilization  on  the  basis  of  labor  as  it  exists  in  the  world 
today.  If  labor  is  to  be  a  factor  in  civilization  it  must  be 
itself  a  civilizing  agency.  No  one  can  be  so  blind  to  ex- 
isting conditions  as  to  assert  that  labor  at  the  present 
time  is  anything  but  a  sordid  makeshift,  without  character 
and  without  meaning.  The  questions  now  which  arise  in 
the  mind  are  these:  Is  there  an  ideal  of  labor  human- 
istic in  its  import?  Is  there  a  form  of  labor  cultural  in 
its  results  ? 

The  theological  doctrine  of  labor  is  probably  every- 
where outgrown — the  doctrine  that  labor  is  a  curse,  in- 
flicted upon  mankind  for  disobedience  and  sin.  In  the 
middle  ages  the  theological  interpretation  of  life  coin- 
cided with  the  system  of  political  feudalism  then  forming, 
and  a  social  civilization  came  into  being  in  which  the  work 
of  the  world  was  given  over  to  slaves  and  underlings, 
the  masters  meanwhile  maintaining  a  cultured  grace  with 
special  privileges,  highly  ornate  and  ceremonial,  fashioned 
upon  leisure. 

Political  feudalism  was  destroyed  by  the  many  revolu- 
tions in  Europe  at  the  turn  of  the  century.  While  these 
revolutions  were  nominally  political  they  were  in  reality 
industrial.  The  French  Revolution  initiated  the  present 


196  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

industrial  system.  This  system  is  purely  materialistic, 
taking  its  rise  in  the  general  skepticism  and  rationalism 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  Labor  lost  its  stigma;  it  rose 
to  the  position  of  a  commodity.  Economic  considerations 
determined  its  value.  The  nexus  between  master  and 
man  ceased  to  be  personal,  feudal,  religious,  or  political, 
and  came  to  be  impersonal,  economic,  and  mathematical. 
Work  was  undertaken  from  necessity — the  degree  of 
necessity  being  measured  by  the  wage.  The  present  in- 
dustrial order  is  therefore  based  upon  material  goods  and 
properties.  There  is  no  spiritual  principle  present  any- 
where in  it.  Labor,  viewed  as  a  commodity,  as  something 
for  which  a  price  is  paid,  is  simply  an  incident  in  an  ex- 
change which  is  formal,  brutal,  without  sentiment,  with- 
out the  spirit  of  service,  and  with  no  cultural  attachments 
or  rewards  of  any  sort.  The  struggle  in  the  industrial 
world  is  between  those  who  have  and  those  who  have  not. 
The  ordinary  laborer  accepts  the  materialistic  valuation 
of  his  services  and  strikes  for  the  only  thing  which  has 
worth  in  his  eyes — a  higher  wage,  a  reward,  that  is,  in 
terms  of  property.  His  demand  is  quantitative,  and  is, 
of  course,  of  the  same  kind  as  the  quantitative  civiliza- 
tion he  helps  to  maintain. 

The  word  civilization  has  been  employed  here,  but  the 
term  is  quite  inappropriate.  Civilization  refers  to  a  cer- 
tain quality  of  life  and  not  to  an  accumulation  of  goods. 
It  would  seem  that  if  the  industrial  system  is  to  endure 
it  must  change  its  character  to  harmonize  with  the  ideas 
of  those  humanistic  philosophers  who  have  conceived  of 
a  culture  suitable  for  an  aspiring  and  spiritual  race.  To 
accomplish  this  change  it  will  be  necessary  to  promulgate 
a  new  doctrine  of  labor,  and  to  effect  a  revolution  in  the 


THE   NEW  DOCTRINE  OF  LABOR  197 

character  of  labor  itself.  Must  labor  always  be  measured 
materially  by  alien  standards  ?  May  it  not  have  spiritual 
rewards?  May  it  not  find  its  value  in  itself?  May  not 
life  become  expressive — may  not  labor,  that  is,  be  con- 
ducted in  the  line  of  one's  own  life?  Why  should  educa- 
tion be  always  leisuristic?  Is  it  not  possible  for  work  to 
be  cultural  ?  May  it  not  even  be  religious  ?  Might  it  not 
gather  to  itself  the  sentiments  which  humanize  and 
civilize  ? 

The  new  doctrine  of  labor  was  enunciated  first  of  all 
in  England  by  Carlyle.  In  its  simplest  form  it  stands  on 
his  pages  thus :  "It  is  the  first  of  all  problems  for  a  man 
to  find  out  what  kind  of  work  he  is  able  to  do  in  this 
universe."  Work,  as  to  its  import,  is  character,  knowl- 
edge, power,  life.  "He  that  has  done  nothing  has  known 
nothing."  Thus  understood,  when  regarded  as  having 
cultural  rewards,  work  becomes  perverted  the  moment  it 
demands  a  wage  and  falls  under  bondage  to  Mammon. 
"The  wages  of  every  noble  work,"  said  Carlyle,  "do  yet 
lie  in  Heaven,  or  else  nowhere." 

These  statements  of  Carlyle  were  elaborated  by  his 
pupil  Ruskin  and  realized  in  practice  by  Ruskin's  pupil 
Morris.  But  apart  from  a  relatively  small  number  of 
workshops  here  and  there,  it  must  be  confessed  the  doc- 
trine of  "labor  as  a  pleasure  in  itself"  is  practically  inop- 
erative in  the  modern  world.  Yet  it  is  the  ideal  which 
must  inform  the  world  if  advance  is  to  be  made  in  the  di- 
rection of  a  rational  industrial  civilization.  By  its  appli- 
cation alone,  by  the  changes  wrought  in  the  character 
and  substance  of  labor  itself,  will  it  be  possible  to  escape 
the  materialism  of  present  day  commerce  and  its  soul- 
destroying  wage-slavery. 


108  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

If  a  change  in  our  attitude  toward  work  and  a  change 
in  the  nature  of  the  work  itself — if  these  changes  can  at 
once  be  effected,  the  two  claims  now  made  by  employees  of 
employers  for  a  higher  wage  and  a  shorter  day  will  be  ren- 
dered nugatory.  If  the  rewards  of  labor  can  be  attached 
to  labor  itself,  if  it  should  not  be  necessary  on  the  one 
hand  to  search  for  a  culture  outside  of  one's  employ- 
ments, and  on  the  other  hand  to  consider  an  equivalent 
for  labor  in  another  medium,  the  main  objects  for  which 
labor  unions  exist  and  on  account  of  which  strikes  are 
entered  upon  would  become  secondary  and  unimportant. 
In  accepting  a  wage  as  the  measure  of  efficiency,  in  de- 
manding rewards  in  forms  of  property,  the  labor  unions 
are  in  truth  subjecting  themselves  to  the  bondage  of 
economic  materialism  and  are  losing  such  advantages  as 
might  come  from  a  spiritual  interpretation  of  life.  The 
struggle  for  higher  wages  is  one  thing — the  motive  being 
purely  materialistic  and  selfish ;  the  struggle  to  be  freed 
from  wage  slavery  altogether  is  quite  another  thing  and 
must  involve  a  certain  idealistic  perception.  If  the 
struggle  for  property  continues  as  insistent  as  it  now  is 
there  is  nothing  but  strife  and  eventually  revolution  to 
look  forward  to.  If  an  evolutionary  advance  is  to  be  ex- 
pected, improvement  must  arise  from  a  change  in  direc- 
tion and  an  acceptance  of  a  new  point  of  view.  For  again 
real  improvement  is  qualitative  and  not  quantitative.  Will 
Chicago  teachers,  who  joined  the  Federation  of  Labor, 
materialize  their  own  function  and  motives  by  accepting 
the  economic  doctrine  of  labor,  or  will  they  help  to  edu- 
cate and  spiritualize  this  body  by  upholding  a  new  doc- 
trine of  labor  and  disclosing  the  play  of  a  social  motive  ? 


THE  SOCIOLOGICAL  VIEWPOINT  IN  ART. 

"I  feel  that  in  this  class  I  have  been  given  a  key  to 
something  rightfully  belonging  to  me,  but  which  some- 
how or  other  I  have  been  cheated  out  of  up  to  this  time. 
I  have  been  compelled  to  spend  time  over  'the  dainty 
figures'  of  Collins  and  the  'sentimentality'  of  Gray,  but 
always  under  protest.  A  serious  and  rational  human 
being  can  have  little  interest  in  these  things.  You  have 
let  me  see  the  real  significance  of  great  literature." 

Such  was  the  note  of  commendation  I  received  not 
long  ago  from  one  of  my  pupils.  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
placing  it  at  the  head  of  this  paper  since  in  answering  the 
letter  I  was  led  to  formulate  more  definitely  than  I  had 
done  before  the  few  principles  which  had  governed  my 
study  and  interpretation  of  literature. 

"Been  given  a  key  to  something  rightfully  belonging 
to  me,  but  which  somehow  or  other  I  have  been  cheated 
out  of  up  to  this  time."  This  sentence,  it  will  be  ob- 
served, is  the  record  of  a  revelation ;  it  is  at  the  same  time 
a  statement  of  a  claim  and  of  an  arraignment.  A  reader 
has  a  right  to  the  whole  truth  of  literature,  a  right  to 
appropriate  for  his  own  enrichment  whatever  has  entered 
into  the  composition  of  a  work  of  art.  In  the  case  of  great 
literature  which  embodies  not  only  a  great  personality, 
but  also  the  essential  life  of  a  whole  people,  or  it  may  be 
the  vital  forces  of  a  complete  epoch,  it  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  everyone  will  have  the  capacity  to  assimilate 
its  entire  substance.  But  it  has  been  my  experience  that 


200  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

success  in  the  study  of  literature  is  due  largely  to  one's 
ability  to  bring  himself  into  right  relationship  to  a  given 
subject.  It  is  mainly  a  question  of  attitude.  If  a  given 
literature  be  approached  from  the  right  point  of  view,  and 
in  the  right  spirit,  the  appropriation  is  dependent  then 
solely  upon  the  capacity  of  the  reader  to  receive ;  but  if 
through  the  ignorance  or  carelessness  or  actual  incom- 
petency  of  the  teacher,  the  student  is  turned  away  from 
the  true  path  to  the  "mountain  of  vision,"  he  has  a  right 
to  bring  a  charge  of  deception  and  fraud  against  the 
teacher  or  critic.  Personally  I  feel  the  responsibility  of 
a  teacher  in  perhaps  an  excessive  degree ;  I  should  hate 
to  have  it  said  of  me  that  I  was  a  blind  guide  to  the  blind. 
It  is  the  function  of  teachers  to  provide  pupils  with  keys — 
to  use  the  figure  of  my  correspondent — and  in  literature 
there  is  the  key  philogical,  the  key  philosophical  and 
ethical,  the  key  psychological,  the  key  historical,  the  key 
sesthetical,  and,  I  will  add  as  something  relatively  new, 
the  key  sociological.  It  was  the  last  of  these  keys,  I  may 
mention,  which  had  been  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  class 
referred  to,  and  this  key  did  in  truth  appear  to  unlock 
unsuspected  stores  of  material  which  other  keys,  least  of 
all  the  sesthetical,  had  failed  to  uncover.  I  call  this  key  the 
sociological  for  the  reason  that  I  first  learned  its  use  from 
a  sociologist.  It  was  another  sociologist  who  most 
clearly  defined  for  me  the  true  nature  of  literature.  How- 
ever, as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  application  of  social  prin- 
ciples has  been  a  marked  feature  of  recent  criticism,  even 
that  of  professional  critics.  It  is  seen  that  only  when 
literature  is  considered  as  one  of  the  arts,  and  when  art  is 
considered  as  one  of  the  processes  of  idealization  by 
which  all  psychic  forms  and  social  institutions  are  shaped, 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL   VIEWPOINT    IN   ART  201 

that  its  proper  place  appears  in  the  circle  of  social  agents. 
The  reason  for  the  late  appearance  of  social  criticism 
would  seem  to  be  that  not  until  recently  has  it  been  pos- 
sible to  connect  the  facts  of  organic  evolution  with  the 
processes  involved  in  the  development  of  a  poetic  idea. 

Art,  it  may  be  argued,  is  one  product  of  the  creative 
imagination.  The  same  imagination  precedes  religious 
prophesy,  philosophic  speculation,  scientific  hypothesis, 
mechanical  invention,  and  social  construction.  Thought 
itself  is  an  idealizing  process,  a  form,  that  is,  of  "creative 
synthesis" — to  use  the  terms  of  Professor  Lester  Ward, 
one  of  the  sociologists  mentioned  above.  And  deeper 
still  the  subjective  evolution  of  mind  is  paralleled  by  the 
objective  evolution  of  nature.  In  the  organic  world  the 
course  of  evolution  is  from  the  homogeneous  to  the  hetero- 
geneous through  successive  differentiations.  An  undiffer- 
entiated  plasm  contained  the  potency  of  all  the  varied 
forms  evolved  from  it.  In  the  same  way  a  poetic  idea,  as 
Ward  states  it,  "is  homogeneous  undifferentiated  truth" — 
it  is  a  psychological  plasm  with  the  power  of  development 
in  a  number  of  directions,  but,  in  its  first  forms,  character- 
ized by  vagueness  and  indefiniteness.  The  illustration 
of  such  "poetic  idea"  given  by  Ward  is  Emerson's  state- 
ment of  the  truth  of  evolution  in  an  essay  published  in 
1836,  and  antedating  Darwin's  "Origin  of  Species"  by 
twenty-three  years : 

"And  striving  to  be  man,  the  worm 
Mounts  through  all  the  spires  of  form." 

In  this  instance  the  differentiation  of  the  poetic  idea  took 
place  in  science.  In  other  cases  the  differentiation  occurs 
in  sociology.  The  condition  of  progress  in  the  different 


202  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

fields  is  essentially  the  same — and  this  condition  is  stated 
by  none  so  well  as  by  Emerson  in  the  passage  just  cited: 
namely  the  psychic  power  of  forming  ideals.  Creative 
imagining  is  the  first  step ;  this  is  followed  by  efforts  to 
realize  the  ideal  conceived,  in  some  concrete  objective 
way.  Man,  as  John  is  made  to  say  in  Browning's 
"Death  in  the  Desert :" 

"Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 
And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 
Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 
Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark." 

It  happens  that  John's  illustration  of  the  process  is  taken 
from  the  art  of  sculpture : 

"The  statuary  ere  he  mold  a  shape 
Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 
The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same; 
So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 
Cries  ever  'Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see': 
Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 
From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself." 

But  now  these  poetic  conceptions  may  be  of  many 
kinds.  If  a  poet  be  warm-hearted,  sympathetic,  highly 
sensitive  to  the  imperfections  of  the  social  order,  whereby 
injustice  and  suffering  fall  heavily  upon  men,  it  is  quite 
inevitable  that  he  turn  his  attention  to  social  reconstruc- 
tion. The  nineteenth  century  has  been  well  called  the 
Century  of  humanity:  for  during  this  period  psychology 
became  social,  and  few  there  were  not  conscious  of  the 
imperfections  of  the  social  order  and  uninfected  by 
Shelley's  "passion  of  reforming  the  world."  There  were 
some  who  were  timid  and  abstracted,  and  did  not  go  farth- 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL   VIEWPOINT   IN   ART  203 

er  than  to  outline  dreamily  a  Utopian  scheme  of  society. 
The  aggressive  types  entered  militantly  into  a  program  of 
revolution.  Whatever  the  poet  did  he  remained  the  poet. 
If  he  wrote  for  a  people  a  new  constitution  he  was  still 
the  poet.  If  he  established  a  new  institution  he  was  not 
less  the  poet.  John  Ruskin's  "socialism,"  his  Society  for 
the  Preservation  of  Ancient  Buildings,  his  Village  In- 
dustries Movement,  his  Society  of  St.  George,  not  less 
than  his  verses  and  paintings  and  criticisms,  are  evidences 
of  poetic  idealization.  Morris  did  not  consider  it  a  degra- 
dation that  he  subordinated  poetry  to  craftsmanship  and 
social  reform.  Where  should  Victor  Hugo  be  placed  if 
not  in  the  front  ranks  of  political  liberals  ?  Berlioz  handled 
a  musket  at  the  barricades  in  Paris.  Byron  and  Shelley 
were  active  revolutionists  in  the  political  and  social 
spheres.  Wagner  joined  the  later  revolutionary  move- 
ment in  Europe.  Tolstoi  is  perhaps  the  foremost  advo- 
cate of  social  reconstruction  in  the  modern  world.  These 
men  exercised  their  creative  genius  in  producing  a  social 
art,  an  art  that  is  greater  in  some  respects  than  the 
aesthetic  art  we  have  been  accustomed  to. 

The  scientific  explanation  of  social  art  was  left  for 
Ward  in  his  "Pure  Sociology"  already  referred  to.  The 
poetic  explanation  of  the  same  phenomena  will  be  found 
in  Shelley's  "Defence  of  Poetry,"  the  full  import  of  which 
has  been  strangely  overlooked.  The  first  conception  ap- 
peared thus  some  eighty  years  before  the  facts  were 
known  scientifically.  "Poetry,"  said  Shelley,  "in  a  gen- 
eral sense,  may  be  defined  to  be  the  'expression  of  the 
imagination.' "  This  led  to  the  affirmation  that  all  forms 
of  order  and  beauty,  according  to  which  the  materials  of 
human  life  are  susceptible  of  being  arranged,  are  poetry, 


204  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

in  the  universal  sense.  "Poets  are  not  only  the  authors  of 
language,  and  of  music,  of  the  dance,  and  architecture, 
and  statuary,  and  painting;  they  are  the  institutors  of 
laws,  and  the  founders  of  civil  society,  and  the  inventors 
of  the  arts  of  life,  and  the  teachers  of  religion."  Because 
of  the  secondary  nature  of  the  written  poetry  of  Rome, 
and  of  the  perfection  there  of  political  and  domestic  so- 
ciety, Shelley  spoke  of  Roman  art  as  social:  "The  true 
poetry  of  Rome  lived  in  its  institutions ;  for  whatever  of 
beautiful,  true  and  majestic,  they  contained,  could  have 
sprung  only  from  the  faculty  which  creates  the  order  in 
which  they  consist." 

Shelley  not  only  denned  poetry  in  terms  of  society,  but 
he  was  also  interested  in  the  interaction  of  the  poet  and 
the  social  system.  Poetry,  he  perceived,  "is  connate  with 
the  origin  of  man."  Illustrations  of  the  social  origin  of 
poetry  are  given  in  the  "Defence  of  Poetry,"  but  the  full 
elaboration  of  the  principle  is  contained  in  a  recent  volume 
by  Professor  Gummere,  entitled  "The  Beginnings  of 
Poetry."  Professor  Gummere  regards  all  literature  as 
the  expression  of  man's  social  nature.  "Poetry,"  he  de- 
fines, "like  music,  is  social ;  like  its  main  factor  rhythm, 
it  is  the  outcome  of  communal  consent,  a  faculte  d'en- 
semble;  and  this  should  be  writ  large  over  every  treatise 
in  poetry,  in  order  to  draw  the  mind  of  the  reader  from 
that  warped  and  baffling  habit  which  looks  upon  all 
poetry  as  a  solitary  performance."  "In  rhythm,"  I  quote 
further,  "in  sounds  of  the  human  voice,  timed  to  move- 
ments of  the  human  body,  mankind  first  discovered  that 
social  consent  which  brought  the  great  joys  and  great 
pains  of  life  into  a  common  utterance." 

These  statements  are  corroborated  in  a  monograph  of 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL   VIEWPOINT    IN    ART  205 

still  later  date,  issued  by  Professor  Tufts,  and  entitled  "On 
the  Genesis  of  the  Aesthetic  Categories."  One  of  his 
theses  is  stated  in  the  following  terms :  "Art  has  its 
origins,  almost  without  exception,  in  social  relations;  it 
has  developed  under  social  pressure ;  it  has  been  fostered 
by  social  occasions ;  it  has  in  turn  served  social  ends  in 
the  struggle  for  existence.  In  consequence,  the  values 
attributed  to  aesthetic  objects  have  social  standards,  and 
the  aesthetic  attitude  will  be  determined  largely  by  these 
social  antecedents.  Or,  in  other  words,  the  explanation 
of  the  aesthetic  categories  is  to  be  sought  largely  in  social 
psychology."  Beyond  a  doubt  these  utterances  repre- 
sent the  trend  of  the  most  authoritative  modern  thinking 
on  the  subject. 

And  what  literature  is  as  to  its  origin  it  remains  as  to 
its  progress  and  development.  There  is  never  a  time  in 
the  history  of  literature  when  it  is  not  possible  to  test  its 
value  according  to  its  derivation  from  and  its  contribu- 
tion to  the  whole  of  human  life.  There  is  no  great  writer 
at  any  time  who  is  not  in  the  main  a  teacher  of  social 
ideals.  The  mere  singer,  the  unsocial  egotist  who  ignores 
the  broad  democratic  social  ties,  may  himself  be  ignored 
by  modern  criticism,  as  failing  to  meet  the  requirements 
of  the  social  method  of  interpretation. 

It  was  what  I  have  just  called  the  social  method  of  in- 
terpretation as  distinguished  from  the  individualistic 
aesthetic  that  Whitman  had  in  mind  when  in  "Good  Bye 
my  Fancy"  he  expressed  his  opinion  in  these  terms: 
"My  own  opinion  has  long  been,  that  for  New  World 
service  our  ideals  of  beauty  (inherited  from  the  Greeks) 
need  to  be  radically  changed,  and  made  anew  for  to- 
day's purposes  and  finer  standards."  Whitman's  own 


206  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

poetry  is,  of  course,  social  in  its  origin  and  nature  and, 
like  Shelley's  poetry,  with  which  it  is  very  closely  allied, 
makes  no  pretense  to  conform  to  aesthetic  standards,  but 
displays  its  real  merits  to  the  critic  capable  of  social  fel- 
lowship. 

The  time  would  seem  to  be  ripe  for  a  shifting  of  the 
critical  point  of  view.  Criticism  has  been  occupied  with 
individualistic  estimation;  it  has  considered  literature  as 
a  product  of  individual  genius ;  it  has  written  text-books 
of  literature  which  treat  of  individual  authors  as  unre- 
lated to  time  or  place.  This  is  done  in  the  face  of  the  fact 
that  not  one  of  the  sciences  considers  man  today  in  isola- 
tion, that  philosophy  finds  no  significance  in  the  individual 
apart  from  society,  that  psychology  itself  traces  mind  to 
its  source  in  nature.  Gossip  about  authors  is,  of  course, 
intrusive,  the  veriest  impertinence.  One  man  is  no  more 
worthy  of  regard  than  another,  except  as  he  is  more  repre- 
sentative, except  as  he  incarnates  more  of  the  Time- 
Spirit,  except  as  he  is  more  absorptive  with  respect  to 
heredity  and  environment.  If  the  artist  be  such  an  inclu- 
sive individual,  personalities  fall  aside,  mere  dexterity  in 
the  handling  of  materials  counts  for  little,  the  merits 
which  have  seemed  to  attach  to  vocabulary,  style,  con- 
struction, species  ir  kind  of  literature,  are  held  in  second- 
ary consideration.  Aesthetic  criticism  is  today  overspecial- 
ized  and  to  the  degree  of  its  specialization  it  has  lost  con- 
tact with  life.  What  should  count  are  the  typical  quali- 
ties, the  democratic  averages,  imaginative  sympathy, 
idealization,  the  social  forces. 

Evidences  accumulate  of  the  dawning  of  the  social 
sense  in  modern  art.  I  have  already  referred  to  Shelley 
and  Whitman  as  illustrating  a  poetry  socialized  in  its 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL   VIEWPOINT    IN   ART  207 

main  effects.  A  notable  instance  of  a  somewhat  obscure 
type  of  social  art  is  furnished  by  Wagner's  music-dramas. 
The  striking  feature  of  Wagner's  dramas  is  the  complete 
unity  effected  of  several  different  arts  in  the  interest  of 
the  drama  as  a  whole.  The  dramatic  unity  involves  here 
the  subordination  of  the  separate  arts  of  music,  poetry, 
and  acting,  hitherto  existing  in  specialized  form.  There 
could  not  be  a  better  illustration  of  what  necessarily  fol- 
lows upon  socialization.  When  each  individual  art  con- 
tributes its  impulse  to  the  whole  the  total  effect  is  well 
nigh  overwhelming.  In  order  to  increase  the  social 
bearings  of  the  work,  philosophic  and  religious  ideals 
were  embodied,  the  dramas  being  dedicated  to  the  Ger- 
man people  to  foster  nationality.  There  could  not  be  a 
better  illustration  also  of  the  failure  of  the  current  criti- 
cism. The  criticism  which  at  first  assailed  Wagner  was 
of  course  of  the  more  aesthetic  type.  No  one  of  his  critics 
had  the  insight  to  perceive  that  a  new  art  had  been  given 
to  the  world,  or  the  sagacity  to  adjust  his  criticism  to 
the  conditions  of  art  purposely  subdued  to  social  uses. 
Tolstoi  throws  the  weight  of  his  great  name  to  the 
side  of  social  criticism.  His  "What  is  Art?"  contains  the 
fullest  and  most  elaborate  discussion  of  the  social  theory 
that  has  yet  appeared.  Discarding  the  metaphysical  and 
sesthetic  theories  of  art,  as  leading  to  work  tending  to  be- 
come exclusive  and  debased,  Tolstoi  reaches  a  definition 
of  art  distinctly  social  in  its  import:  "The  infection  of 
one  man  by  another  with  the  feelings  experienced  by  the 
infector."  And  as  it  is  the  first  requirement  of  social  art 
that  it  be  actually  socialized,  that  is,  that  it  reach  and  in- 
fluence as  many  members  of  the  social  order  as  possible, 
its  special  mission  is  to  transmit  the  truth  that  "well- 


208  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

being  for  men  consists  in  being  united  together,"  or,  in 
other  words,  to  "establish  brotherly  union  among  men." 
It  is  clear  that  the  art  calculated  to  effect  the  union  of 
men  is  of  a  kind  totally  different  from  an  art  intended  to 
please  the  educated  taste  of  the  aesthetic  classes.  "Good 
taste,"  of  the  kind  that  creates  divisions  among  men,  or 
that  exalts  one  man  above  another,  is  the  least  desirable 
faculty  to  educate  in  a  democracy.  Sympathy  and  univer- 
sality are  the  marks  of  great  modern  art. 

We  now  perceive  also  that  the  criticism  of  Ruskin  and 
Morris — of  all  the  great  moderns,  indeed,  who  are  moved 
by  the  spectacle  of  "man's  inhumanity  to  man,"  is  of  the 
social  type.  "I  say,"  said  Ruskin  in  the  first  volume  of 
Modern  Painters,  "that  art  is  the  greatest,  which  conveys 
to  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  the  greatest  number  of  the 
greatest  ideas."  "Painting,  or  art  generally,"  he  says 
again,  "is  nothing  but  a  noble  and  expressive  language, 
invaluable  as  the  vehicle  of  thought,  but  by  itself  noth- 
ing." "By  itself  nothing" — in  these  words  condemning 
an  art  which  exists  by  reason  of  the  beauty  of  its  tech- 
nique, or  the  glory  of  its  words,  or  the  perfection  of  its 
form.  "No  weight,  or  mass,  nor  beauty  of  execution  can 
outweigh  one  grain  or  fragment  of  thought." 

Add  to  such  statements  the  sayings  of  Morris  on 
the  subject  of  art  and  we  begin  to  gather  a  body  of 
social  criticism  respectable  in  its  amount  and  influen- 
tial in  its  appeal.  "By  art,  I  understand,"  said  Morris, 
"the  pleasure  of  life,"  and  it  became  the  aspiration  of 
his  heart  and  mind  to  restore  to  the  people  that  pleas- 
ure of  life  which  had  been  lost  to  them  through  the 
refinement  and  abstraction  of  the  art  impulse. 

What  will  be  the  outcome  of  such  criticism?    What 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL    VIEWPOINT    IN   ART  209 

will  the  new  art  come  to  be  when  redeemed  from 
specialization  and  created  by  and  for  the  people? 

Doubtless  America  furnishes  the  opportunity  for 
the  freest  play  of  the  social  impulses.  Although  our 
art  is  in  considerable  measure  traditional  and  aristo- 
cratic, there  are  yet  evidences  of  fundamental 
changes  taking  place  in  the  conception  of  art,  which 
bring  production  more  in  harmony  with  the  modern 
forces.  American  literature  as  a  whole  and  in  its  main 
phases  is  a  social  literature — a  literature  devised,  that 
is,  for  purposes  of  social  communication.  The  first 
literary  products  in  the  New  World  were  a  child's 
primer,  a  hymn-book,  and  an  almanac.  A  people 
whose  government  is  republican  must  necessarily 
proceed  by  debate  and  persuasion.  Identity  of  inter- 
ests and  ideas  must  be  created  and  maintained.  For 
this  reason  the  literary  spirit  of  America  is  manifest 
not  so  much  in  its  poetry  as  in  its  prose,  and  its 
greatest  prose  is  found  in  certain  political  documents 
and  in  the  addresses  of  its  great  publicists.  Of  style 
in  the  technical  sense  there  is  little  in  the  typical 
American  prose.  A  speaker  who  wishes  to  address 
all  minds  and  carry  conviction  to  all  hearts  will  not 
divert  attention  by  refining  upon  phrases.  The  char- 
acteristic American  prose  is  the  plain  prose  of  Lin- 
coln— a  prose  so  perfect  as  a  medium  of  expression 
that  its  value  lies  wholly  in  what  it  communicates.  It 
reveals  large  sympathy  and  implies  the  presence  of  mul- 
titudes of  men.  It  is  literature  of  the  purest  social  type. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  creative  impulse  in 
America  finds  other  channels  than  the  conventional 
ones.  The  fine  arts  are  not  quite  native  to  us;  they 


210  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

are  with  us  derivative,  the  result  of  conscious  and  will- 
ful seeking  and  adaptation.  But  in  certain  popular 
and  industrial  forms  our  art  has  been  original  and 
creative.  We  originated  the  public  park,  for  instance, 
and  have  carried  its  aesthetic  forms  to  a  perfection  not 
equalled  elsewhere  in  the  world.  America's  greatest 
artist  is  a  landscape  architect.  We  created  also  com- 
mercial architecture,  and  today  the  American  steel- 
frame  business  temple  represents  the  one  new  and 
original  departure  made  in  the  art  of  architecture 
since  the  period  of  the  Gothic.  After  Olmstead  our 
most  distinctive  artist  is  Sullivan,  an  architect.  It 
is  probable  the  industrial  arts  will  receive  their  final 
perfection  here.  A  foreign  observer,  M.  Bing  of  Paris, 
speaking  of  L'Art  Nouveau  of  which  in  Europe  he  is 
the  chief  exponent,  has  recently  said:  "I  express  the 
conviction  that  America,  more  than  any  other  country 
of  the  world  is  the  soil  predestined  to  the  most  bril- 
liant bloom  of  the  future  art  which  shall  be  vigorous 
and  prolific."  The  public  park,  commercial  structures, 
the  communal  crafts,  are  modern  social  types  of  art. 
They  are  signs  of  the  revolution  wrought  in  recent 
years  in  the  political  and  social  spheres  of  endeavor. 
They  represent  social  concepts  and  imply  the  presence 
and  the  co-operation  of  the  people. 

In  the  history  of  "Exposition"  building  in  this 
country  we  have  again  an  apt  illustration  of  the 
growth  of  a  social  consciousness  in  respect  to  art 
forms.  Taking  our  greater  expositions  in  review, 
it  is  seen  that  tKey  represent  many  phases  of 
the  evolution  of  a  true  art  spirit.  The  Centennial 
Exposition  was  an  exhibition  only.  Instruction  was 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL   VIEWPOINT    IN   ART  211 

its  guiding  motive.  It  was  a  show  primarily  of  the 
world's  products.  Little  was  given  to  beauty  for 
itself,  and  the  feeling  of  unity  was  altogether  lacking. 
The  architecture  was  neither  beautiful  in  itself  nor 
did  it  subserve  function.  At  the  World's  Fair  at  Chi- 
cago the  exhibition  was  held  somewhat  in  abeyance, 
the  construction  having  more  the  intention  of  a  spec- 
tacle. There  was  still  wanting  the  principle  of  func- 
tion and  the  conception  of  a  true  unity.  The  first 
violation  of  function  and  the  fundamental  error,  so- 
cially speaking,  was  the  choice  of  the  classic  style  for 
the  architecture.  "World's  Fair"  conveys  to  the  mind 
the  idea  of  a  holiday.  An  excursion  to  a  World's 
Exposition  represents  a  lyric  moment  thrust  in  be- 
tween the  incidents  of  business  and  worldly  cares. 
The  time  is  a  play  spell — one  is  in  the  holiday  mood, 
not  seeking  to  be  edified  alone,  or  alone  to  be  moved 
by  a  spectacle  of  beauty,  but  to  be  free  and  festive 
even.  Grecian  architecture,  perfect  for  Grecian  use, 
is  almost  meaningless  when  set  down  on  a  level  plain 
by  a  lake  side — altogether  meaningless  when  forming 
an  arena  for  a  democratic  people  on  holiday.  Be- 
tween the  rigid  and  severe  simplicity  of  the  classic 
styles  and  the  essential  sentiment  of  a  "Fair"  there  is 
no  possible  reconciliation.  The  "White  City"  made  a 
beautiful  "show,"  and  as  a  show  it  was  enjoyed  and 
highly  commended.  But  it  stopped  far  short  of  unity, 
since  it  was  not  built  with  primary  reference  to  the 
people.  Instead  it  was  built  timidly  and  negatively, 
in  actual  distrust  of  the  people.  The  fair  would  have 
been  as  beautiful  if  there  had  been  no  one  to  behold  it. 
It  derived  nothing  of  its  meaning  from  the  people 


212  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

present,  and  the  people  saw  nothing  of  themselves 
reflected  in  the  Fair.  The  third  of  our  great  expo- 
sitions, the  Pan-American  at  Buffalo,  showed  a  strik- 
ing advance  upon  all  previous  conceptions  and  ap- 
proximated a  perfect  social  art.  Its  primary  purpose 
was  sociological — the  purpose,  that  is,  of  creating  a 
festal  scene  appropriate  to  a  people  on  holiday.  Based 
on  this  elemental  fact  of  function,  the  exposition  car- 
ried out  the  same  principle  throughout  its  entire  struc- 
tural scheme.  To  indicate  the  nature  of  the  particu- 
lar enterprise  a  Spanish  Renaissance  style  was 
adopted  for  the  architecture — a  style  which  lends  it- 
self admirably  to  festivity  and  admits  a  lavish  use  of 
color  and  ornamentation.  Architecturally  the  expo- 
sition converged  toward  the  electric  tower,  which, 
with  its  suggestion  of  Niagara,  was  naturally  the 
focus  of  all  paths.  The  principle  of  socialization  was 
perhaps  most  apparent  in  the  coloring.  For  the  color- 
ing was  not  independent,  but,  so  to  speak,  sociological. 
The  color  scheme,  extending  from  south  to  north, 
typified  the  advance  of  civilization  from  barbarism 
to  culture,  as  the  milder  tints  of  the  central  buildings 
pointed  to  the  intellectualization  of  mankind.  There 
were  two  exceptions  to  this  order.  The  electric  foun- 
tain, having  come  to  the  dignity  of  a  "fine  art"  (that 
is,  an  independent  art),  could  not  be  socialized  and 
was  therefore  banished  to  an  island  by  itself — an 
"art  for  art's  sake."  The  other  exception  was 
strangely  the  government  building  of  the  "United 
States."  For  some  reason  the  government  could  not 
be  socialized,  and  hence  this  building  stood  as  an 
excellent  illustration  of  the  fact  that  our  present  gov- 


THE    SOCIOLOGICAL    VIEWPOINT   IN   ART  213 

ernmental  forms  pertain  to  a  conception  of  the  people 
older  than  the  one  implied  by  the  exposition  itself. 
The  sculpture,  of  which  there  were  some  five  hundred 
pieces,  also  formed  an  integral  part  of  the  plan.  The 
sculpture,  like  the  color,  told  the  story  of  civilization. 
There  were  three  series,  each  conveying  a  distinct 
historic  progression;  the  story  of  Man,  the  story  of 
Nature,  and  the  story  of  Industry.  Besides  these 
main  histories  the  group  at  the  tower  revealed  the 
history  of  the  subjugation  of  Niagara,  which  is  indeed 
the  most  splendid  story  of  human  achievement.  Each 
building  had  its  own  appropriate  symbols  in  addition 
to  those  which  served  the  general  plan.  For  the  first 
time  American  sculpture  displayed  an  original  genius, 
"finding  itself"  in  social  service.  In  such  a  manner 
the  Fair  effected  a  complete  unity  of  the  arts,  in  the 
way,  it  will  be  observed,  of  the  Wagnerian  drama. 
And  this  unity  extended  so  as  to  include  the  people, 
since  the  entire  spectacle  took  meaning  from  the  peo- 
ple, and  the  people  recognized  their  own  history  at 
every  turn.  "Art  for  art's  sake"  had  at  length  given 
way  to  "art  for  life's  sake." 

Here  then  the  whole  issue  lies.  In  the  interest  of 
a  Commonweal  are  we  willing  to  give  up  specializa- 
tion and  cultivate  instead  the  social  spirit?  Instead 
of  trying  to  be  something  by  ourselves,  may  we  not 
trust,  as  Emerson  advised,  the  cosmic  forces?  Is 
there  not  a  Social  Intelligence  in  the  world  of  men  as 
active  and  efficient  as  the  Spirit  of  the  Hive,  according 
to  which,  as  Maeterlinck,  shows,  the  bees  conduct  their 
small  but  marvellously  complicated  economies?  Will 
criticism  face  the  artistic  problem  involved  in  the  substitu- 


214  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

tion  of  social  for  individual  standards?  In  ethics  and 
in  some  other  departments  of  thought  the  transition 
has  already  taken  place,  but  criticism  remains  on  the 
individualistic  ground.  Of  course  many  of  the  old 
ideas  and  principles  of  criticism  will  suffer  change  or 
loss.  Most  of  all  we  shall  need  to  revise  the  meta- 
physical and  aesthetic  theories  of  art.  Socially  speak- 
ing it  is  not  necessary  that  art  be  beautiful;  it  is  not 
necessary  that  it  be  of  good  report — unless  it  should 
happen  that  beauty  and  perfection  are  social  neces- 
sities. We  need  not  deny  beauty  its  place,  or  good- 
ness its  function,  but  there  is  a  larger  fact  than  either 
abstraction;  namely,  the  actual  needs  of  human  life, 
energized  and  driven  by  forces  larger  than  itself, 
forces  which  compel  expression  characterized  at 
times  by  neither  beauty  of  phrase  or  Tightness  of  mo- 
tive, but  yet  revelatory  of  spiritual  experiences  and 
cosmic  impulses.  "I  harbor,"  said  Whitman,  in  the 
spirit  of  the  new  time,  "for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to 
speak  at  every  hazard  Nature  without  check,  with 
original  energy."  In  this  one  direction  America  can 
move  with  originality  and  power:  and  all  other  ways 
are  closed. 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  THE   BETTERMENT 
MOVEMENT. 

In  the  world  in  which  we  live  there  is  little  evi- 
dence of  the  conscious  possession  by  any  group  of 
men  and  women  of  the  full  community  sense.  Busi- 
ness is  competitive  and  individualistic,  and  conducted 
to  the  end  of  private  profit.  It  is  true,  a  modification 
in  the  industrial  system  was  made  when  the  legal 
fictions  of  the  firm,  the  corporation,  the  trust,  and 
other  forms  of  combination,  were  devised.  But  in 
truth  these  corporations  socialize  their  business  only 
within  the  limits  of  the  group,  their  motive  still  re- 
maining selfish  and  egotistic.  Now  and  then,  in 
times  of  want  and  special  crisis,  as  during  the 
recent  coal  famine,  the  terrible  unrelieved  selfishness 
of  the  business  world  stands  revealed  in  all  its 
ugliness.  Every  man's  hand  seems  raised  against 
every  other,  or,  where  combinations  have  been  formed, 
the  different  groups  seize  every  opportunity  to  prey 
upon  the  public  at  large.  Ruskin's  plea  for  the  so- 
cialization of  business  has  apparently  not  found  lodg- 
ment in  any  mind.  No  one  has  conceived  how  an  ad- 
vantageous code  of  business  conduct  can  be  based 
upon  the  social  affections. 

The  union  which  has  been  effected  in  the  labor 
world  is  in  like  manner  superficial  and  partial.  There 
is,  of  course,  a  growing  class  consciousness,  and  it 


216  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

seems  likely  that  in  the  next  few  years  the  labor  world 
will  be  quite  fully  solidified.  It  is  important  to  note  that 
already  the  group  contract  is  superseding  individual 
contract,  this  fact  pointing  directly  to  the  socializa- 
tion of  labor  interests  within  the  labor  group. 

Combination  is  the  order  of  the  day;  but  the  union 
of  the  conflicting  elements  \vith  the  public  has  yet  to 
take  place.  In  labor  disturbances  the  public  is  of  all 
the  parties  concerned  the  first  to  be  disregarded.  In- 
deed, strikes  depend  commonly  for  their  success  upon 
the  amount  of  suffering  and  inconvenience  which  can 
be  imposed  upon  the  public. 

Politics  is  based  openly  on  a  party  system,  the 
absurdity  of  which  in  matters  relating  to  the  general 
welfare  has  not  escaped  the  notice  of  political  philoso- 
phers. The  party  system  is  social  to  the  degree  that 
the  trust  and  the  labor  union  are  social,  and  no  more. 
The  tendency  is  for  politics  not  to  purify,  but  to  de- 
generate into  a  means  for  private  profit  at  the  hands 
of  scheming  politicians — to  return,  that  is,  to  the  level 
of  business.  How  little  communistic  in  its  motive 
politics  is  may  be  seen  at  times  when  a  public  good  is 
desired,  such  as  parks  and  schools,  and  then  every 
effort  is  made  to  keep  these  matters  "out  of  politics." 
In  view  of  the  partial  nature  of  party  action  it  has 
been  deemed  necessary  for  the  people  to  demand  the 
"initiative  and  referendum,"  these  being  devices  to 
secure  so  far  as  possible  the  record  of  community  will. 

The  truth  will  probably  appear  that  there  is  not  a 
single  democratic  institution  in  America,  either  in 
politics  or  business  or  social  life.  A  very  positive  in- 
terest, therefore,  must  attach  to  what  is  called  the  im- 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  BETTERMENT  MOVEMENT     217 

provement  association,  which  is  in  fact  a  new  public 
institution  taking  shape  beneath  the  play  of  certain 
communal  forces. 

The  improvement  association  is  different  from 
other  voluntary  associations  in  that  its  purpose  is  po- 
litical in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  and  is  virtually 
a  new  institution.  It  is  proposed,  indeed,  as  a  sub- 
stitute plan  for  one  which  has  failed  to  work.  There 
is  something  wanting  in  the  constitution  of  govern- 
ment— some  inherent  defect  in  it.  The  failure  noted 
is  not  limited  to  any  one  locality  nor  can  it  be  said  to 
be  due  to  the  size  of  the  city,  for  the  defect  is  equally 
obvious  in  other  places  and  in  towns  and  villages.  A 
few  days  ago  I  listened  to  a  report  of  the  improvement 
association  of  Morgan  Park,  Illinois.  Reference  was 
made  to  the  apparent  inability  of  the  town  council  to 
get  the  most  necessary  things  done,  or  even  to  correct 
abuses  where  things  were  left  undone.  The  streets 
or  parks  were  not  properly  cared  for.  The  space 
about  the  railroad  station  was  an  unsightly  waste. 
There  was  no  gas  or  other  means  of  lighting  in  the 
village.  The  improvement  association  was  formed  to 
do  precisely  what  the  original  town  government  was 
designed  to  do,  but  which  it  was  practically  unable  to  do. 
What  we  perceive,  therefore,  is  the  birth  of  a  new  so- 
cial institution,  and  this  institution,  it  will  be  observed, 
is  the  only  one  so  formulated  as  to  embody  the  com- 
munity spirit.  The  improvement  association  is,  in 
short,  an  improved  type  of  the  town  meeting — so  im- 
proved, however,  as  to  constitute  virtually  a  new  or- 
ganization. 

The    "town"   is    perhaps    the    most   democratic   of 


218  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

American  political  institutions.  Above  the  town  the 
principle  of  representation  is  employed,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, the  county,  state,  and  national  forms  of  gov- 
ernment reveal  a  constant  tendency  towards  bureau- 
cracy. To  show  that  I  am  speaking  not  simply  as  a 
theorist,  I  may  mention  that  I  have  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  town  government,  having  held  its  of- 
fices in  a  community  where  local  self-government 
counted  for  a  great  deal.  I  now  see  that  while  the 
town  is  the  most  democratic  of  our  governmental 
divisions,  its  one  fault  is  that  it  is  not  democratic 
enough.  There  is  no  real  reason  why  the  members  of 
a  town  meeting  should  be  limited  to  men  of  legal  vot- 
ing age.  Such  a  limitation  may  be  justified  in  view 
of  the  increasing  difficulty  of  delegating  authority  in 
the  higher  stages  of  government,  but  on  the  popular 
plane,  suffrage  should  be  absolutely  universal  with- 
out limitations  of  race,  sex  or  age. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  the  first  distinctive  feature  of 
the  improvement  association  is  noted.  Membership 
in  the  association  goes  by  right  of  residence.  I  am 
not  informed  whether  or  not  any  "woman  suffragist" 
is  at  the  bottom  of  this  movement.  Perhaps,  without 
intending  it,  the  problem  of  suffrage  has  been  solved 
in  a  perfectly  natural  and  spontaneous  way.  And 
now  that  we  see  the  success  which  attends  the  efforts 
of  a  united  community  to  help  itself,  it  is  quite  evi- 
dent that  the  failure  of  former  institutions  was  due  to 
their  partial  nature.  What  more  natural  or  more 
necessary  than  that  women  should  assist  in  house- 
keeping a  city?  And  not  the  least  good  accomplished 
is  the  care  the  children  learn  to  take  in  maintaining 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OP  THE  BETTERMENT  MOVEMENT     219 

the  good  report  of  the  neighborhood.  Never  before 
have  the  children  been  brought  in  to  co-operate  in  the 
maintenance  of  order.  The  inculcation  of  patriotism 
in  the  public  schools  on  special  days  devoted  to  the 
celebration  of  Washington  and  Lincoln  anniversaries 
is  of  little  importance  if  the  lesson  of  citizenship  is 
not  learned  in  the  community  near  by. 

A  second  distinctive  feature  of  the  improvement 
association  is  its  principle  of  voluntary  taxation.  In 
the  long  run  voluntary  service  is  the  best  and  most 
permanent.  There  has  been  some  talk  of  securing 
legislative  sanction  for  these  associations,  enabling 
them  to  lay  taxes  for  public  improvements.  This 
modification  of  the  voluntary  plan  I  should  view  with 
disfavor.  When  a  law  is  established,  counter  cur- 
rents are  liable  to  be  engendered  in  opposition  to  the 
law,  such  antagonisms  rendering  the  united  action  of 
a  community  impossible.  Behind  a  tax  legally  laid 
stand  the  police  and  the  army.  The  unity  they  secure 
is  an  outward  and  formal  unity.  Said  Walt  Whitman : 

"Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by  lawyers? 
Or  by  an  agreement  on  a  paper?  or  by  arms? 
Nay,  nor  the  world,  nor  any  living  thing,  will  so  cohere." 

It  is  much  better,  then,  to  place  the  emphasis  upon  a 
common  need  and  educate  the  community  to  a  united 
action  than  to  risk  disruption  by  compulsory  methods. 
The  immediate  dependence  of  the  work  of  the  asso- 
ciation upon  the  support  of  the  neighborhood  will 
lead  to  carefulness  and  economy  and  wise  expendi- 
ture. Only  in  this  way  can  the  association  escape  the 
satire  of  Emerson  upon  government  when  he  said: 


220  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

"Of  all  debts  men  are  least  willing  to  pay  the  taxes. 
Everywhere  they  think  they  get  their  money's  worth, 
except  for  these." 

I  hope  you  do  not  think  I  am  treating  this  subject 
too  seriously.  What  is  an  improvement  association 
to  call  out  a  discussion  involving  questions  of  politi- 
cal philosophy !  Perhaps  you  have  thought  the  ob- 
ject of  the  association  is  simply  to  clean  streets  and 
dispose  of  garbage,  and  is  of  passing  interest  at  best. 
For  my  own  part  my  interest  in  the  organization  is 
aroused  because  it  promises  to  become  a  genuine  so- 
cial institution.  Those  who  administer  the  various 
associations  are  certainly  convinced  of  their  per- 
manency. I  am  a  member  of  a  committee  of  the  South 
Park  Improvement  Association  of  Chicago,  which  is 
just  now  giving  out  contracts  for  the  planting  of  trees, 
and  plans  have  been  made  to  bring  our  whole  district 
within  a  single  scheme  of  landscape  gardening.  This 
much  of  the  work  at  least  is  done  in  faith,  and  thus 
far  it  has  the  marks  of  permanency.  It  is  among  the 
possibilities  that  this  association  will  some  day  build 
a  town  hall  of  a  new  type,  not  as  a  place  for  political 
chicanery,  but  as  a  center  of  social  culture. 

Looking  at  the  subject  with  a  broader  view  we  per- 
ceive that  there  are  other  causes  besides  local  improve- 
ment waiting  upon  the  development  of  the  com- 
munity spirit.  To  take  a  single  instance,  consider  for 
a  moment  the  program  of  the  Municipal  Art  League 
of  Chicago.  This  league  is  organized  "for  the  purpose 
of  promoting  art  in  the  city,  and  of  abating  public 
nuisances  as  preliminary  to  the  stimulation  of  civic 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  BETTERMENT  MOVEMENT     221 

pride."      Among   the    public    improvements    thought 
worthy  of  consideration  by  the  league  are : 

"The  suppression  of  the  smoke  nuisance  as  a  necessity  for  mak- 
ing all  other  improvements  appreciable. 

"The  improvement  of  the  whole  lake  front;  not  only  the  Lake 
Front  Park,  but  the  boulevard  system  of  the  North  Side  and  its 
connection  with  the  Lake  Front  Park  by  an  outer  viaduct  and 
bridge  or  subway. 

"The  improvement  of  the  designs  in  use  for  gas  and  electric 
light  posts,  patrol  boxes,  and  waste  paper  receptacles,  and  the 
introduction  of  electrically  lighted  street  name  signs. 

"The  proper  regulation  of  bill  boards. 

"The  harmonious  grouping  of  business  or  private  houses 
belonging  to  different  owners,  without  detriment  to  the  interests 
of  each. 

"Conversion  of  vacant  lots  into  temporary  lawns  and  play- 
grounds, by  consent  of  owners  and  co-operation  of  neighbors. 

"Improvement  of  the  designs  for  signs  on  business  buildings, 
and  asking  co-operation  of  the  real  estate  board  in  adoption  of 
standard  designs  for  lots  for  sale  and  houses  for  rent." 

Such  are  some  of  the  objects  of  this  most  praise- 
worthy association.  To  a  reasonable  person  there  is 
nothing  unreasonable  in  any  of  the  suggestions  made 
for  civic  betterment.  Yet  why  is  improvement  so 
slow?  There  is  no  lack  of  support  for  other  institu- 
tions. A  Crerar  founds  a  library,  a  Rockefeller  en- 
dows a  university,  a  Field  builds  a  museum,  a  Hutch- 
inson  supports  an  art  institute.  But  there  is  no  Na- 
poleon to  rebuild  Chicago,  and,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
there  can  not  be.  Chicago  must  be  reconstructed  by 
its  citizens  working  in  the  spirit  of  co-operation  and 
mutual  concession.  The  other  institutions  mentioned 
are  in  a  sense  external  to  the  life  of  the  city.  They 
exist  and  flourish  because  they  depend  for  their  main- 


222  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

tenance  upon  the  accumulation  and  overplus  of 
money  and  property  in  egoistic  hands.  It  is  to  the 
interests  of  these  cultural  institutions  that  the  indi- 
vidualistic method  of  business  be  retained.  More  than 
one  library  has  been  built  out  of  what  from  another 
point  of  view  is  a  public  nuisance.  For  the  sake  of 
additional  libraries  we  will  put  up  with  smoke-be- 
fouled air,  we  will  sacrifice  the  general  comfort  and 
health,  we  will  harden  our  hearts  to  the  cries  of  the 
oppressed,  we  will  hearken  to  the  alderman  who  tells 
us  if  we  do  not  like  Chicago  to  go  elsewhere :  for  pros- 
perity, forsooth,  is  created  out  of  smoke.  The  more 
smoke  the  more  libraries;  the  more  libraries  the 
greater  the  smoke  nuisance.  But  municipal  art  strikes 
at  the  heart  of  business  itself.  It  insists  that  selfish- 
ness and  personal  greed  shall  be  driven  from  the  com- 
mercial process.  It  demands  that  business  shall  be 
socialized. 

Is  a  social  civilization  too  much  to  hope  for?  Must 
antagonisms  always  exist  among  the  individuals  of  a 
community?  Are  we  to  be  forever  driven  by  economic 
fear?  Might  not  a  city  of  rational  beings  devise  a 
method  of  living  contentedly  together? 

It  is  just  possible  that  in  solving  our  problem  of  lo- 
cal improvement  we  are  making  a  contribution  to  the 
history  of  civilization. 


INDUSTRIAL   FEUDALISM—AND   AFTER. 

I  do  not  know  when  and  by  whom  it  was  first  dis- 
cerned that  the  modern  industrial  development  of  the 
world  is  nearly  identical  as  to  its  main  features  with 
the  political  evolution  of  an  earlier  time.  It  is  now 
almost  a  commonplace  to  use  the  words  "Industrial 
Feudalism"  in  describing  the  modern  status  of  indus- 
try. Mr.  Ghent  seems  to  think  that  in  his  essay  on 
"Benevolent  Feudalism"  he  was  the  first  to  apply  the 
principle  of  feudalism*  in  explaining  modern  "Cap- 
italism." In  truth  the  conception  of  a  monarchic 
order  in  industrialism  is  a  familiar  one  and  is  implied 
in  the  popular  designation  of  the  great  owners  and  di- 
rectors of  properties  as  "Kings"  and  "Barons."  It  is 
now  clear  that  these  terms  represent  very  real  facts, 
and  that  the  stage  now  reached  in  industrial  progress 

*In  my  volume  entitled  "Chapters  in  the  History  of  the  Arts 
and  Crafts  Movement,"  written  early  in  1900,  I  made  the  fol- 
lowing statement:  "In  the  present  relationship  [between  ex- 
ploiters and  exploited]  all  the  features  of  feudalism  are  found. 
And  as  the  world  is  only  at  the  beginning  of  its  industrial  evo- 
lution it  is  likely  that  -the  process  will  run  parallel  at  all  points 
with  the  development  of  government.  The  old  domestic  sys- 
tem of  industry,  which  the  factory  system  superseded,  was  simply 
undifferentiated  and  unorganized  industry.  Corresponding  to 
the  political  era  of  petty  warfare  was  the  period  of  competition. 
Competition  has  been  the  agent  for  the  selection  of  the  strong 
and  the  elimination  of  the  weak.  It  has  created  'Captains  of 
Industry'  on  one  side,  and  an  army  of  workmen  reduced  to  order, 
and  compelled  to  service  on  the  other,  etc." 


224  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

is  distinctly  feudal  and  monarchic.  The  most  success- 
ful and  perfectly  controlled  businesses  in  recent  years 
have  been  those  organized  and  built  up  on  feudal  lines. 
Competition,  corresponding  to  the  private  wars  of  the 
middle  ages,  has  forced  the  issue  from  without.  With- 
in the  competitive  groups  the  wage  and  salary  in  regu- 
lated scale  have  furnished  the  nexus  to  bind  their 
members  together  in  the  relation  of  master  and  man. 
The  war-game  is  played  with  dollars  and  not  with 
arms  and  men.  From  the  combination  of  groups, 
principalities  are  being  formed,  presided  over  by  petty 
Kings.  These  pay  tribute  to  the  few  individuals  who 
constitute  the  real  government.  The  monarchic  state 
is  of  course  not  yet  perfected  and  will  not  be  till  the 
"universal  trust"  is  formed  whereby  competition  is 
wholly  destroyed  and  supreme  control  is  placed  in  the 
hands  of  one  man.  This  one  man  will  derive  his  au- 
thority not  from  the  subjects,  the  workers,  but  from 
"God."  In  order  that  the  magnate's  action  may  have 
higher  sanction  a  theory  will  be  formed  correspond- 
ing to  the  "divine  right  of  Kings" — a  theory  im- 
plied by  the  devout  attitude  of  many  industrial  po- 
tentates and  which  is  already  formulated  by  a  certain 
"coal-baron"  in  words  that  have  burned  deep  into  the 
consciousness  of  the  times. 

The  monarchic  conclusion  is  inevitable.  There  will 
be  no  great  change  in  the  industrial  system  until  the 
present  centralizing  tendency  is  ended — until  all  are 
absorbed  in  the  industrial  idea,  and  until  all  have 
come  to  industrial  consciousness. 

Industrial  despotism  will  be  tempered,  of  course, 
by  occasional  benevolence — there  will  be  "good"  mag- 


INDUSTRIAL    FEUDALISM— AND    AFTER  225 

nates  as  there  were  "good"  kings.  This  class  will 
seek  to  solve  the  social  problem  from  above,  through 
various  agencies  looking  toward  "industrial  better- 
ment." Even  now  the  up-to-date  business  has  a  "so- 
cial secretary"  whose  function  is  to  improve  the  con- 
ditions of  work  by  providing  libraries,  lectures 
picnics,  flower-beds  and  the  like,  and  by  bringing  into 
the  corporation  that  personal  element  which  the  cor- 
poration as  a  "legal  fiction"  cannot  presume  to  con- 
tain. The  rule  of  the  benevolent  will  often  be 
thwarted  by  rebels  and  protestors  who  think  they 
want  simple  justice  and  not  benevolence  and  flower- 
beds. But,  as  the  system  will  prove  beneficial  on  the 
whole  to  the  masses  of  the  people  during  the  time  of 
its  formation  the  rebellions  will  be  of  short  life  and 
ineffective. 

There  will  be  a  growing  difficulty  also  in  maintain- 
ing feudal  authority,  because  of  the  very  perfection 
of  the  machinery  of  production,  the  enormous  increase 
of  products  making  it  increasingly  difficult  for  the  own- 
ers to  consume  that  which  is  produced.  The  indus- 
trial baron  must  work  out  and  solve,  at  the  risk  of 
losing  his  position,  the  problem  of  employment.  One 
unemployed  person  is  a  menace  to  the  whole  order.  One 
unconsumed  product  is  as  dangerous  to  the  industrial 
order  as  was  the  outlaw  in  the  mountains  of  Europe  to 
the  political  order.  Yet  I  do  not  doubt  that  new  ways 
may  be  devised  of  spending  money  and  of  setting  the 
task  for  labor. 

The  advantage  of  industrial  feudalism  is  two-fold. 
It  brings  order  into  the  chaos  occasioned  by  compe- 
tition— an  order  greatly  to  be  desired  to  satisfy  our 


226  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

repugnance  at  social  waste.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  system  of  individualistic  production  is  attended 
by  enormous  loss  of  every  kind.  The  law  of  economy 
requires  the  co-ordination  of  effort,  such  as  is  at- 
tained in  the  corporation  and  trust.  And  as  the  world 
is  not  yet  rationalized  we  must  depend  for  the  elimi- 
nation of  waste  upon  the  strong  hand  of  an  over-lord. 
The  second  gain  in  feudalism  is  the  education  the 
people  receive  in  industrialism,  whereby  the  way  is 
prepared  for  the  assumption  of  industrial  control  by 
the  people  when  feudalism  shall  have  fulfilled  its  func- 
tion. 

But  now  the  question  presents  itself — After  feu- 
dalism, what?  The  answer  seems  clear:  Some  form  of 
industrial  democracy. 

In  political  democracy  the  world's  political  evolu- 
tion is  doubtless  culminating.  After  the  dispersion 
of  political  authority  to  the  individuals  of  a  group  the 
political  system  as  such  is  subject  to  disintegration. 
The  ballot  box  was  once  regarded  as  the  "palladium 
of  our  liberties" — something  to  suffer  for,  to  fight  for, 
and  to  die  for.  It  is  now  looked  upon  by  the  majority 
of  citizens  with  considerable  indifference.  The  whole 
scheme  of  political  democracy  is  upheld  largely  by 
tradition.  Government  has  been  handed  over  to  poli- 
ticians who  enter  into  politics  because  they  can  get 
something  out  of  it  for  themselves.  And  for  the  pres- 
ent the  people — again  for  traditional  and  sentimental 
reasons — pay  the  bills  of  appropriation :  though  with 
increasing  bad  grace.  Long  ago  Emerson  noted  that 
of  all  expenditures  the  people  paid  the  taxes  with  the 
least  willingness.  The  vital  thought  of  the  people  is 


INDUSTRIAL    FEUDALISM— AND    AFTER  227 

not  to-day  in  politics.  The  real  problems  are  not 
governmental  but  industrial.  Is  there  a  single  politi- 
cal issue  before  the  American  people  to-day?  Is  it  at 
all  likely  that  political  issues  will  arise  in  the  future? 
Doubtless  the  President  of  the  United  States  will  one 
day  be  a  political  figure-head  precisely  in  the  manner 
of  the  King  of  England  at  the  present  time.  What 
we  are  witnessing  at  the  present  moment  is  the  trans- 
fer of  interest  from  the  field  of  politics  to  that  of  in- 
dustry. But  let  it  be  observed  that  the  transfer  is 
made  not  from  a  political  democracy  to  an  industrial 
democracy,  but  from  a  political  democracy  to  an  in- 
dustrial feudalism.  This  is  the  real  cause  of  the  im- 
mense confusion  of  our  time.  Men  are  independent 
with  respect  to  political  government:  they  are  de- 
pendent with  respect  to  industrial  control.  The  bat- 
tle for  human  freedom  has  to  be  fought  all  over  again 
on  a  new  field  and  with  new  weapons.  The  lesson  of 
political  democracy  is,  of  course,  well  learned.  Never- 
theless the  time  is  not  yet  come  for  the  establishment 
of  business  upon  democratic  lines.  In  the  first  place 
the  higher  ideals  of  labor  have  not  become  universal. 
In  the  second  place  there  are  too  many  inefficient 
workers.  A  revolution  at  the  present  time  to  effect 
the  destruction  of  industrial  feudalism  in  the  manner 
of  the  French  Revolution,  which  brought  about  the 
ruin  of  political  feudalism,  would  result  in  chaos. 
Industrial  consciousness  is  too  imperfectly  developed 
for  all  men  to  assume  industrial  self-control.  But 
when  the  feudal  order  is  perfected  and  when  the  su- 
perior magnate  has  held  control  long  enough  for  the 
people  to  realize  that  loyalty  to  him  is  in  truth  loy- 


228  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

alty  to  themselves — that  he  is  nothing  by  himself, 
but  only  as  he  represents  the  will  of  the  whole  people, 
then  the  dispersion  of  the  magnate's  authority  will  be 
effected  gradually — it  may  be  by  some  revolution. 

A  sign  of  the  times  is  that  the  transfer  of  inter- 
ests to  industrial  feudalism  is  made  by  means  of  "Re- 
publican" politics.  The  rise  of  the  Republican  Party 
to  power  coincides  with  the  modern  evolution  of  busi- 
ness. This  is  more  than  accidental.  The  Republican 
Party  stands  for  centralization.  It  is  Hamiltonian  in 
its  policy — Hamilton  being  of  all  political  leaders  the 
most  monarchic  in  attitude.  Meanwhile  the  policies 
of  Jefferson  are  obscured.  The  Republican  Party 
stands  also  for  property,  and  property  owners  do  well 
to  contribute  to  the  Republican  campaign  fund. 
Meanwhile  the  people  must  wait  for  their  recognition 
at  the  hands  of  the  government  until  materials  are 
fully  organized  and  the  rush  for  property  has  sub- 
sided. It  is  doubtful  if  labor  will  gain  anything  by 
affiliating  with  the  Democratic  Party  or  by  forming 
an  independent  Labor  Party,  for  the  reason  that  in- 
dustrial democracy  can  never  be  established  on  the 
basis  of  a  political  system.  Business  is  strategic  and 
centralizes  in  regions  which  ignore  the  artificial 
boundaries  of  state  and  county.  The  strength  of  labor 
lies  in  its  unions  and  federations — which  are  federa- 
tions of  men  and  not  governments  of  laws.  The  true 
policy  of  labor  is  to  maintain  and  perfect  the  interior 
organization  of  the  union,  waiting  the  while  for  the 
culmination  of  the  present  tendency.  History  can 
but  repeat  itself.  The  next  step  after  industrial  feud- 
alism is  industrial  democracv.  This  means  that  in- 


INDUSTRIAL    FEUDALISM— AND    AFTER  229 

dustries  will  be  conducted  by  and  for  the  people ;  and 
this  means,  of  course,  that  production  will  be  carried 
on,  not  for  the  sake  of  production  or  for  that  power 
which  wealth  secures,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  people. 

Already,  in  isolated  places,  the  transition  from  feu- 
dalism to  democracy  has  begun.  I  do  not  refer  to  the 
building  of  "model"  workshops  or  villages  or  to  any 
other  similar  scheme  of  benefaction,  whereby  the 
feudal  lords  seek  to  conceal  the  rigor  of  their  rule.  I 
refer  to  the  beginnings  of  industrial  control  in  certain 
factories  and  stores  where  proprietorship  is  nominal, 
and  where  interior  control  is  effected  by  the  ballot.  I 
refer  also  to  the  "co-operative  movement"  which  is 
destined  to  increase  and  include  both  production  and 
consumption.  I  refer  also  to  the  workshops  building 
here  and  there  under  the  influence  of  the  teaching  and 
example  of  Ruskin  and  Morris.  Voluntary  individual 
co-operation  is,  I  believe,  the  ultimate  form  of  indus- 
trial democracy. 

Assuming  that  evolution  at  this  stage  of  life  is  ra- 
tionally inclined,  what  factors,  now,  can  be  depended 
upon  to  continue  and  perfect  the  new  tendency? 
Knowledge,  for  one  thing,  or  what  is  called  science. 
By  science  the  monarchic  conception  of  the  universe 
is  forever  disproved.  There  is  no  Absolute  Deity 
which  rules  the  universe  as  with  a  sceptre.  The  uni- 
verse is  a  republic  and  not  a  kingdom.  The  more  we 
know  of  the  nature  of  things  the  more  certain  does  it 
appear  that  intelligence  and  will  reside  in  the  atom 
and  groups  of  atoms.  The  law  of  form  is  function  and 
service.  The  human  body  is  a  veritable  republic,  its 
very  life  being  dependent  upon  the  co-operation  of 


230  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  individual  cells  composing  it.  Probably  the  purest 
type  found  in  Nature  of  an  industrial  community  is 
the  bee-hive.  Apiarists  have  miscalled  the  maternal 
bee  the  queen.  But  the  bees  at  work  are  controlled 
not  by  the  queen  but  by  something  which  Maeterlinck 
in  his  wonderful  book  on  The  Bee  calls  "The  Spirit  of 
the  Hive."  It  may  seem  inappropriate  to  make  this 
reference  to  knowledge,  but  the  fact  remains  that 
any  given  change  will  occur  in  the  social  order  only  as 
the  members  of  that  society  shape  an  ideal  in  which 
all  may  share,  and  to  which  all  will  conform.  The 
sanction  of  a  feudal  order  was  found  in  mediaeval  the- 
ology. The  sanction  of  the  new  industrialism  will  be 
found  in  science.  A  democracy  more  than  any  other 
social  form  is  dependent  upon  education. 

A  second  factor  is  the  love  of  freedom.  This,  prob- 
ably, is  the  ultimate  human  impulse.  Governors,  mas- 
ters, rulers  of  every  sort,  who  do  not  plan  their  gov- 
ernance with  reference  to  the  love  of  liberty  in  all 
hearts,  prove  their  incapacity  to  exercise  authority  at 
all.  Said  Whitman  to  the  foiled  European  Revolu- 
tionaire: 

"Courage  yet,  my  brother  or  my  sister! 

What  we  believe  in  waits  latent  forever  through,  all  the  con- 
tinents, 

Invites  no  one,  promises  nothing,  sits  in  calmness  and  light, 
is  positive  and  composed,  knows  no  discouragement, 

Waiting  pa-tiently,  waiting  its  time. 

When  liberty  goes  out  of  a  place  it  is  not  the  first  to  go,  nor 
the  second  or  third  to  go, 

It  waits  for  all  the  rest  to  go,  it  is  the  last." 
How,  then,  does  the  case  for  liberty  stand  now? 
What    is    lacking    in    the    free    scope    of    free    men? 


INDUSTBIAL    FEUDALISM— AND    AFTER  231 

Clearly,  free  action  is  wanted  on  just  one  point.  We 
are  free  in  matters  of  religion.  There  are  no  recent 
instances  of  persecution,  except  in  remote  places.  We 
are  equally  free  in  matters  of  political  practice.  There 
are,  perhaps,  more  exceptions  to  political  freedom 
than  religious  freedom,  but  still  political  freedom  is 
practically  assured.  But  no  one  today  enjoys  indus- 
trial freedom.  No  one  is  self-directive  in  the  field  of 
work.  Every  workman  must  find  an  employer.  The 
functions  of  hand  and  head  are  performed  by  differ- 
ent individuals.  So  long  as  this  condition  exists  there 
will  be  warfare  between  the  executive  and  servile 
agents.  Industrial  freedom  means  the  privilege  of 
self-control  in  respect  to  one's  work.  It  involves  the 
making  of  every  workman  his  own  employer.  This  is 
not  an  easy  relation  to  sustain  to  oneself,  it  is  admit- 
ted. But  it  is  not  more  difficult  than  serving  as  priest 
and  king  over  oneself.  Industrial  freedom,  like  reli- 
gious and  political  freedom,  depends  for  its  effective- 
ness upon  character  and  capacity  in  the  individual. 
Religious  feudalism  and  political  feudalism  were  so 
ordered  as  to  afford  the  best  possible  training  in  self- 
control  in  their  respective  fields.  Industrial  feudalism 
will  doubtless  furnish  a  discipline  equally  effective. 
When  men  are  ready  for  the  assumption  of  authority, 
such  authority  will  be  readily  assumed.  The  shifting 
of  control  will  be  gradual — so  gradual  that  there  will 
be  no  break  in  the  unity  of  industrial  life.  The  work 
of  the  world  will  go  on  very  much  as  it  does  now.  No 
one  will  stop  working,  but  work  will  be  done  from  a 
new  motive:  not  under  compulsion  but  voluntarily. 
This  is  the  very  essence  of  industrial  freedom.  When 


232  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Great  Britain  abrogated  the  political  government  of 
Massachusetts  with  the  intention  of  forcing  submis- 
sion by  this  means,  the  province  subsisted  for  a  year 
without  governors  of  any  kind — without  governors  but  not 
without  government.  In  one  of  the  workshops  of  the  new 
industrialism,  surprise  was  expressed  by  a  visitor  that 
there  was  not  special  distinction  in  the  product.  The 
answer  of  the  workman  to  the  query  was  that  the  ob- 
ject of  the  workshop  was  not  to  make  an  unusual  kind 
of  chair  but  to  make  the  usual  chair  with  a  new  kind 
of  workman.  The  chair  was  after  a  traditional  pat- 
tern ;  the  workman  was  the  product  of  a  revolution. 

Without  elaborating  these  suggestions  further,  I 
may  state  succinctly  the  theses  I  have  had  in  mind  to 
prove. 

1.  An   industrial   order   is   rrow  being  established 
which  corresponds  in  all  essential  respects  with  what 
is  known  in  political  history  as  feudalism. 

2.  The  political  order,  so  far  as  it  is  shaped  by  the 
same  individuals  who  control  industry,  partakes  also 
of  the  nature  of  feudalism ;  hence  the  recrudescence 
in  the  United  States  of  the  principles  of  Hamilton  and 
the  dominance  of  the  Republican  Party. 

3.  When  the  feudalistic  tendency  culminates  into 
the  establishment  of  a  centralized  control  of  all  indus- 
tries, then  the  conscious  and  deliberate  appropriation 
of  that  power  by  the  people  will  begin,  till  work  be- 
comes free  and  the  worker  self-directive. 

4.  Biology  and  psychology  testify  to  the  ultimate 
triumph   of   the   principle   of   self-activity.      In   other 
words,  all  the  forces  of  evolution  are  on  the  side  of  the 
people. 


THE  WORKSHOP  AND  SCHOOL. 

A  short  time  ago  I  received  a  letter  from  a  graduate 
student  in  a  certain  university  in  which  he  stated  that,  on 
account  of  the  lack  of  a  sufficient  sum  of  money  to  "carry 
him  through,"  he  was  forced  to  support  himself.  "This 
I  do,"  the  letter  reads,  "by  manufacturing  a  few  hundred 
cigars  a  week.  If  you  use  cigars,  I  should  esteem  your 
patronage  a  great  favor.  I  make  the  cigars  myself,  and 
manufacture  only  high  grade  goods."  The  condition  de- 
picted here  is  one  with  which  I  was  familiar,  yet  never 
before  was  one  aspect  of  our  education  brought  so  forcibly 
and  clearly  to  my  attention.  The  letter  betokens  the  com- 
plete divorcement  that  has  grown  up  between  education 
on  the  one  hand,  and  industrialism  on  the  other  hand. 
Education,  it  seems,  is  a  leisuristic  pursuit  which  entails 
the  sacrifice  of  one's  trade  or  profession.  Furthermore, 
one's  trade  or  profession  is  not  regarded  as  having  any 
educational  value  and  is  at  best  a  means  of  gaining  a  live- 
lihood. Taking  this  young  man's  case  as  typical,  how 
should  such  a  problem  be  solved?  Should  he  seek  to 
abandon  his  trade  altogether  and  win  at  all  hazards  a 
special  and  supposedly  higher  culture;  or  should  he  go 
back  to  the  workshop  and  yield  all  hopes  of  becoming  an 
educated  man ;  or  should  he  do  what  he  is  now  doing ; 
devote  part  of  his  time  to  his  work  (which  is  one  thing) 
and  a  part  of  his  time  to  education  (which  is  another 
thing)  ? 

Let  us  suppose  that  he  despises  his  work  as  ignoble 


234  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

and  chooses  to  become  a  man  of  culture — then,  he  rejects 
that  which  is  at  least  real,  and  enters  upon  a  path  that 
tends  toward  unreality,  till  perchance  he  loses  himself 
in  abstraction  and  ceases,  therefore,  however  reined  he 
may  become,  to  be  a  vital  factor  in  the  world's  work. 
But  is  the  other  alternative  any  better?  He  gains,  let  us 
say,  a  livelihood  by  his  work ;  he  surrounds  himself  with 
the  bodily  comforts  and  indulges  occasionally  in  luxuries; 
he  becomes  perhaps  a  foreman  in  the  shop  or  rises  to  the 
position  of  proprietor,  promoter  and  trust-magnate.  But 
if,  in  this  process,  he  is  uneducated,  his  work  is  still  unre- 
deemed and  is  virtually  unprofitable,  however  vast  his 
worldly  possessions.  Recently  a  man  who  had  chosen  the 
way  of  business  and  in  the  pride  of  his  success  had  assert- 
ed that  a  college  education  was  a  detriment  to  a  man  of  af- 
fairs, passed  his  vacation  in  Europe.  It  was  observed  that 
when  away  from  his  business  he  was  reduced  for  pleas- 
urable exercise  to  gambling  at  Monte  Carlo.  We  were  a 
little  shocked  at  this,  not  that  we  regard  gambling  as  a 
sin,  but  that  Monte  Carlo  seemed  so  trivial  in  view  of  the 
stimulus  which  Europe  offers  to  a  man  of  true  culture  and 
insight.  But  is  the  third  solution  a  way  out  of  the  dif- 
ficulty? Should  our  young  man  study  half  of  the  time 
and  work  at  his  trade  the  rest  of  the  day?  This  solution 
is  reached,  of  course,  by  way  of  a  compromise — a 
compromise  of  the  same  nature  as  that  presented  in  the 
labor  world  by  the  eight-hour  day.  It  consists  in  reducing 
what  is  offensive  and  undesirable  to  its  lowest  terms,  in 
order  that  when  necessity  is  satisfied,  the  worker  may  be 
free  for  a  season  to  do  that  which  to  him  is  pleasurable. 
I  cannot  imagine  a  torture  more  grievous  than  that.  In- 
deed, the  orthodox  hell,  as  described  by  Milton  in  Para- 


THE   WORKSHOP   AND   SCHOOL.  233 

disc  Lost,  consisted  in  just  this  alternate  freezing  and 
burning.  The  case  of  this  young  man,  or  of  any  young 
man,  seems  to  me  at  this  time  to  be  hopeless.  There  is 
simply  no  chance  in  the  world  today  for  a  man  to  be  in- 
tegral, to  live  an  entire  life ;  he  must  be  divided  and  di- 
vided according  to  the  divisions  which  obtain  throughout 
the  whole  range  of  modern  life. 

I  see  only  one  remedy  for  the  class  system  of  modern 
society— that  is,  to  reconstruct  the  institutions  that  em- 
body the  social  spirit ;  to  create  a  school  which  is  not  so  far 
removed  from  the  workshop  as  to  obliterate  real  processes 
and  objects — to  create  a  workshop  which  shall  be  so  fully 
educative  in  itself  that  it  will  be  a  virtual  school.  I  can 
conceive  that  even  a  cigar  factory  might  be  so  conducted 
as  to  be  instructive.  If  one  really  understood  the  work  he 
was  doing,  the  part  he  was  playing  in  the  world's  vast 
intricate  scheme  of  industry ;  or  if  one  really  knew  in  all 
its  relations  the  object  he  was  handling — in  this  case,  let 
us  say,  the  history  of  the  tobacco  plant,  such  a  workman 
would  not  pass  as  a  wholly  uneducated  man.  In  contact 
with  his  fellow  workmen,  he  might  develop  to  the  full  the 
life  of  comradeship :  that  human  sympathy  without  which 
education  of  any  sort  is  empty  and  unprofitable.  My  illus- 
tration is  perhaps  unfortunate.  To  King  James,  who  ut- 
tered a  counterblast  against  tobacco,  or  to  Emerson,  who 
thought  a  cigar  was  a  crowbar  thrust  in  among  the  deli- 
cate tendrils  of  the  brain,  the  illustration  would  be  un- 
savory. But  it  was  of  a  plant  of  less  importance  than  the 
tobacco  plant  that  Tennyson  said : 

"Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 
I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand! 


236  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is." 

But  I  do  not  wish  to  anticipate  my  conclusion.  I  do 
contemplate  the  creation,  at  no  far  distant  time,  of  a  com- 
bined workshop  and  school :  but  meanwhile  there  are  cer- 
tain considerations  which  must  be  understood  in  order  that 
our  evolution  may  be  rational  and  the  end  desired  be  pre- 
pared for. 

The  dominant  tendency  in  the  world  today  is  the  indus- 
trial. Broadly  speaking,  the  industrial  issues  are  the 
vital  ones.  The  most  virile  and  energetic  minds  of  the 
modern  world  are  engaged  in  solving  the  problems  that 
attach  to  material  things.  The  men  who,  at  other  times 
in  the  world's  history,  erected  altars,  built  cathedrals,  led 
armies,  conducted  diplomacy,  formulated  systems  of  phil- 
osophy, and  mastered  the  technique  of  the  arts,  are  today 
engaged  in  industry.  That  was  a  sublime  story  of  the 
history  of  mankind  told  at  the  Buffalo  Exposition  by  the 
series  of  buildings  and  sculpture  groups  which  centered 
in  the  Electric  Tower.  There  at  the  focus  of  all  paths 
stood  resplendent  the  shining  tower.  By  ways  of  savagery, 
and  step  by  step  through  various  forms  of  culture,  the  race 
reached  a  point  where  it  could  engage  successfully  in 
struggle  with  the  more  subtle  forces  of  its  environment. 
There,  I  say,  at  the  center  of  all  historic  radii  rose  up 
triumphant  the  electric  tower — a  symbol  of  what  ?  symbol 
of  man's  greatness  in  respect  of  religion,  or  art,  or  poli- 
tics, or  laws  ?  Not  of  these,  but  of  his  genius  in  industry. 
It  is  not  quite  correct  to  say  that  the  light  which  streamed 
from  the  tower  was  a  "symbol"  of  man's  genius,  for  it 
was  rather  the  evidence  of  it.  It  was  a  light  objective 


THE  WORKSHOP  AND   SCHOOL  237 

and  material,  a  light  made  of  the  energy  transmitted 
from  Niagara.  Here  was  the  secret.  Niagara  had  waited 
a  million  years  for  its  conqueror,  its  subjection  to  the  ser- 
vice of  man,  and  this  conquest  was  regarded  by  the  build- 
ers of  the  Fair  as  the  supreme  achievement  of  the  race 
thus  far.  For  the  first  time,  we  recognized  and  published 
and  celebrated  the  fact  that  an  electric  tower,  thus  de- 
vised and  illumined,  was  worthy  to  stand  in  the  place  of 
honor  where  hitherto  cathedrals  and  armies  and  thrones 
and  constitutions  and  art  had  stood.  That  Exposition 
was  the  apotheosis  of  labor ;  it  was  the  exaltation  of  ma- 
terials. And  as  a  further  evidence  of  our  industrial  civili- 
zation it  was  noticed  that  he  who  was  then  our  political 
leader,  in  his  last  great  address,  spoke  not  of  political, 
but  of  industrial  problems.  President  Roosevelt's  recent 
message  to  Congress  dealt  almost  entirely  with  industrial 
questions.  The  part  our  President  played  in  settling  the 
coal  strike  was  a  prophesy  of  what  the  function  of  our 
highest  officer  is  destined  to  become.  What  do  these  signs 
indicate  if  not  that  the  time  has  come  to  estimate  the 
genius  of  an  individual  or  of  a  people  by  capacity  to  con- 
trol materials  ?  When  Sir  William  Hamilton  asserted  that 
Aristotle  had  a  genius  as  great  as  Homer's,  he  seized  upon 
the  primary  fact  that  genius  may  be  exercised  in  many 
directions.  Genius  is  not  greater  or  smaller  by  virtue  of 
the  materials  it  works  upon ;  genius  is  power,  the  power 
of  an  organizing,  effective  mind. 

Accepting  then  the  statement  that  the  dominant  ten- 
dency in  the  world  today  is  the  industrial,  we  are  ready 
to  carry  our  inquiry  farther  back  and  to  ask  why  the  place 
of  primacy  should  be  given  to  the  industrial  hero.  The 
answer  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  result  appears  to  be  due 


238  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

to  the  working  of  that  social  force  we  call  democracy. 
The  most  democratic  peoples  today  are  those  most  suc- 
cessful in  the  field  of  industry — and  the  connection  is 
more  than  accidental.  America  has  assumed  the  leader- 
ship among  industrial  nations,  much  to  the  perplexity 
and  alarm  of  competing  factories.  The  secret  of  this 
leadership  seems  to  be  little  understood.  In  vain  do  for- 
eign manufacturers  provide  new  machinery  for  their 
workshops  and  introduce  new  methods  into  their  business. 
It  is  soon  discovered  that  success  is  not  a  matter  of  ma- 
chinery and  method ;  it  lies  farther  back  in  the  social  sys- 
tem and  environment.  Our  American  success  in  indus- 
trial enterprises  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  immense 
stores  of  energy,  latent  and  unemployed,  are  released  for 
service  through  the  opening  of  opportunity  occasioned  by 
democracy.  A  democratic  people  is  not  a  religious  people, 
not  an  artistic  people,  not  a  political  people,  but  a  working 
people.  We  are  constituted  of  men  who  do  things.  We 
sweep  all  transcendental  visions  and  fictions  aside  and  start 
from  the  ground  of  the  concrete  fact.  And  we  are  dis- 
covering more  and  more  that  successful  doing  of  things 
is  a  form  of  noble  exercise.  It  is  necessary  to  emphasize 
this  fact,  since  if  we  are  to  enter  rationally  into  a  given 
line  of  evolution  we  must  understand  what  is  important 
and  what  is  meaningless.  The  significance  of  evolution 
pertains  far  more  to  the  future  than  to  the  past  or  present. 
If  it  is  clear  that  the  industrial  tendency  is  the  dominant 
one,  and  if  back  of  that  there  is  to  continue  the  perpetual 
pressure  of  democratic  forces,  then  it  is  the  part  of  wis- 
dom to  create  institutions  that  relate  to  industrial  democ- 
racy and  withdraw  our  support  from  old  and  outworn 
ideals.  Let  the  arts  and  the  religions  and  the  political 


THE   WORKSHOP   AND    SCHOOL  239 

systems  that  took  their  rise  from,  and  furnished  the  sus- 
tenance for  the  feudal  aristocracies  of  Europe — let  them 
wither,  I  say,  and  pass  from  men's  memories  and  minds ! 
In  naming  democracy  as  the  force  that  is  shaping  the 
modern  world,  and  as  the  fact  which  must  condition  all 
our  thinking,  I  imply,  of  course,  the  presence  still  among 
us  of  the  opposite  force  and  fact  variously  known  as  mon- 
archy, feudalism,  and  aristocracy.  And  it  appears  that 
while  the  modern  spirit  is  democratic,  the  forms  and  in- 
stitutions still  in  evidence  are  derived  largely  from  mon- 
archy. Many  of  our  religions,  in  particular  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  are  clearly  monarchic  in  character;  for  they 
strive  to  establish  on  earth  "the  kingdom  of  God." 
Thrones,  judgment-seats,  commands,  punishments — these 
linger  in  theology,  while  in  science  and  in  actual  affairs 
the  universe  is  regarded  as  a  republic.  Especially  in 
prayer-books  and  hymn-books  do  the  feudal  ideals  linger. 
Even  our  National  Hymn  closes  with  a  reference  to  "God 
our  King."  The  art  we  try  to  keep  alive  in  a  poor,  thin 
fashion  was  originally  provided  for  the  noble  and  leisure 
classes  of  Europe,  and  is  still  an  incident  of  wealth  and 
luxury.  What  can  be  more  undemocratic  than  the  prin- 
ciple of  "art  for  art's  sake,"  according  to  which  most  of 
our  art  is  produced,  and  by  the  acceptance  of  which  those 
gifted  with  special  aesthetic  taste  defend  their  exclusive- 
ness?  Our  public  schools  have  been  democratized  to 
some  extent,  yet  even  here  there  is  a  considerable  trace 
of  foreign  ideals.  The  emphasis  still  placed  on  culture 
and  learning  as  such,  and  upon  formal  thinking,  upon  in- 
tellectual discipline,  upon  reading  and  writing,  upon  ex- 
aminations and  prizes,  upon  authority  and  discipline, 
upon  athletics — these  emphases  are  signs  of  the  belated 


240  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

militarism  in  the  American  school.  Strangely  enough,  too, 
our  present  industrial  system,  though  modern  in  spirit,  is 
formed  on  the  lines  of  the  military,  and  we  speak  of 
"Captains  of  Industry"  and  not  infrequently  refer  to  the 
great  trust-magnates  as  "kings" — "sugar  kings,"  "to- 
bacco kings,"  "oil  kings,"  etc.  The  "trust"  is  a  federation 
of  principalities,  and  it  has  been  prophesied  that  if  the 
present  tendency  continues,  in  twenty  years  an  Emperor 
will  be  ruling  at  Washington.  The  latest  suggestion  is 
that  we  are  forming  in  this  country  a  "benevolent  feudal- 
ism." I  do  not  know  of  a  single  perfected  democratic 
institution,  though  there  are  abundant  tokens  of  change 
and  transition. 

The  purpose  of  my  remarks  thus  far  has  been  to  call 
your  attention  to  the  conditions  I  have  just  noted.  We 
live  in  a  new  age ;  we  are  impelled  by  new  thoughts ;  yet 
we  are  trying  to  put  up  with  old  forms.  Our  interior  life 
is  one  thing.  Our  exterior  life  is  another  thing.  Is  it  not 
possible  to  create  new  institutions — institutions  that  will 
not  be  masks  and  lies,  but  represent  what  we  really  think 
and  are  or  hope  to  be  ?  One  such  institution  I  propose — the 
institution  of  the  workshop:  a  workshop  of  a  new  type, 
such  as  may  be  properly  the  unit  of  organization  in  the 
industrial  commonwealth  we  are  forming. 

The  workshop  I  have  in  mind  will  embody  to  the  full 
the  high  ideals  of  labor,  conceived  by  such  writers  as  Rus- 
kin,  and  current  in  the  world  for  nearly  a  century.  It 
will  be  a  genuine  manufactory  where  materials  shall  be 
shaped  into  the  things  we  use.  It  will  be  a  "studio," 
where  work  shall  be  creative  and  not  devoid  of  a  sense 
of  beauty.  It  will  be  a  school  where  the  doing  of  things 
shall  be  educative,  since  work  will  there  be  conducted  to 


THE   WORKSHOP   AND    SCHOOL  241 

the  ends  of  expression,  as  art  is  at  its  best  and  as  life 
is  at  its  freest.  In  a  sense,  it  will  be  a  state,  since  it  will 
be  a  community  of  self-governing  individuals.  In  a  sense, 
too,  it  will  be  a  church,  since  it  will  be  established  upon 
the  basis  of  co-operation  and  comradeship.  Such  a  work- 
shop is  a  dream,  you  say,  impossible  of  realization.  But 
let  us  examine  the  factors  more  in  detail.  I  said  the  work- 
shop would  embody  certain  high  ideals  of  labor.  For  a 
century  there  has  been  proclaimed  a  gospel  of  labor,  which 
came  into  being  apparently  in  opposition  to  the  leisur- 
istic  ideal  of  aristocracy.  Carlyle  was  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  outspoken  advocates  of  the  new  doctrine.  There  is 
splendid  passion  glowing  in  Carlyle's  words  concerning 
the  "toilworn  craftsman  that  conquers  the  earth  and  makes 
her  man's"  There  is  a  passage  in  his  writings  which  I 
can  never  read  without  a  quickening  of  the  heart :  "Ven- 
erable to  me  is  the  hard  hand,  crooked,  coarse,  wherein, 
notwithstanding,  lies  a  cunning  virtue,  indefeasibly  royal, 
as  of  the  scepter  of  this  planet.  Venerable,  too,  is  the  rug- 
ged face,  all  weather  tanned,  besoiled,  with  its  rude  intel- 
ligence ;  it  is  the  face  of  a  man  living  manlike.  Oh !  but 
the  more  venerable  for  thy  rudeness,  and  even  because  we 
must  pity  as  well  as  love  thee,  hardly  entreated  brother ! 
For  us  was  thy  back  so  bent,  for  us  were  thy  straight 
limbs  and  fingers  so  deformed:  thou  wert  our  conscript, 
on  whom  the  lot  fell,  and  fighting  our  battles  wert  so 
marred.  For  in  thee  lay  a  God-created  form,  but  it  was 
not  to  be  unfolded ;  encrusted  must  it  stand,  with  the  thick 
adhesions  and  defacements  of  Labour ;  and  thy  body,  like 
thy  soul,  was  not  to  know  freedom.  Yet  toil  on,  toil  on ; 
thou  art  in  thy  duty,  be  out  of  it  who  may ;  thou  toilest 
for  the  altogether  indispensable,  for  daily  bread."  From 


242  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

the  terms  employed  and  the  feeling  displayed,  it  is  evident 
that  Carlyle  had  but  just  made  the  discovery  of  this  crafts- 
man. But  through  how  many  cruel  cerements  he  was 
obliged  to  penetrate !  We  have  seen  this  workman — he 
still  walks  our  streets.  Yet  in  the  same  age  another 
craftsman  has  appeared — a  craftsman  of  which  "William 
Morris  is  the  type — erect  and  forceful,  who  wins  his  way 
by  sheer  strength  of  personality,  who  actually  realizes 
the  ideal  of  the  nobility  of  labor  that  Carlyle  pronounced 
to  be  possible.  Now  Carlyle  belonged  to  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century  and  Morris  to  the  second  half. 
Carlyle  simply  outlined  the  doctrine  of  labor  as  from  a 
pulpit.  But  Morris  exercised  his  energy  within  an  actual 
workshop.  Will  you  dare  to  say  that  in  the  next  half 
century  the  possibilities  of  labor  may  not  be  realized  by 
multitudes  of  men  and  women  ?  Is  it  not  our  function  to 
make  this  realization  simple  and  rational  ? 

Just  how  the  institutional  workshop  will  arise,  and  in 
what  guise  it  will  appear,  I  can  not  say.  But  I  conceive 
that  in  this  workshop  real  work  will  be  conducted,  and 
that  we  shall  make  in  it  all  those  things  we  need  for  as- 
tual  use.  This  institution  will  be  at  least  self-supporting. 
It  seems  to  me  a  defect  of  our  institutions  that  they  are 
really  parasitic  and  exist  by  virtue  of  the  labor  of  others, 
as  represented  in  taxes  as  to  the  state,  in  contributions  as 
to  the  church,  in  patronage  as  to  the  arts,  in  endowments 
as  to  the  school.  We  do  not  want  to  add  another  charity  to 
this  series.  This  much  is  clear:  the  workshop  will  be  a 
commercial  enterprise.  This  surely  will  not  be  difficult, 
considering  the  long  training  the  world  has  had  in  pure 
acquisition. 

With  successful  commercialism  as  the  basic  fact,  we 


THE  WORKSHOP  AND   SCHOOL  243 

may  then  add  to  that  the  element  of  art.  I  do  not  mean 
that  the  fine  arts  will  be  given  place  in  the  workshop.  That 
is  not  necessary.  Art  is  simply  free  creation.  Beauty  is 
not  something  added  to  an  object,  it  is  a  quality  of  work. 
It  comes  into  evidence  whenever  a  man  takes  pleasure  in 
his  work,  whenever  his  hands  are  permitted  to  do  what 
his  own  desires  determine  and  his  own  will  directs.  The 
difference  between  art  and  not-art  is  that  the  one  is  work 
accomplished  in  freedom  and  the  other  is  work  done  under 
conditions  of  slavery.  It  seems  we  are  free  today  in  every 
respect  but  one — we  may  go  where  we  will,  we  may  think 
and  speak  what  we  will,  we  may  worship  when  we  will 
and  vote  for  whom  we  will ;  but  very  few  men  today  can 
work  as  they  will.  The  workman  must  discover  an  em- 
ployer, the  lawyer  must  find  his  client,  the  doctor  must 
wait  for  his  patient,  the  preacher  must  be  called  to  his 
pulpit,  the  teacher  must  be  invited  to  his  chair.  There  is 
almost  no  free  work  in  the  world  today,  and  probably 
cannot  be  under  our  present  organization.  Recently  I 
have  learned  that  workmen  are  not  desired  in  factories 
after  the  age  of  forty-five.  If  this  be  true — if  a  man  is 
shut  out  from  the  world's  work  at  forty-five,  then  is  our 
industrial  civilization  dangerous  and  altogether  question- 
able. So  long  as  this  condition  lasts  art  is  impossible. 
Art  will  enter  into  the  workshop  only  when  the  worker  is 
in  some  degree  at  least  a  free  agent.  As  I  look  back  upon 
the  recent  past,  I  discover  but  one  genuinely  fiee  work- 
man— this  same  William  Morris,  and  in  all  the  industrial 
world  I  discover  only  one  movement  that  looks  towards 
the  real  redemption  of  labor — the  arts  and  crafts  move- 
ment which  Morris  again  was  instrumental  in  initiating. 
If,  then,  we  desire  art  in  our  workshop  we  must  add  to  the 


244  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

system  of  exchange  some  principle  of  free  workmanship. 
The  workshop  as  school  is  already  provided  for  when 
work  is  made  creative.  In  the  truest  education  there  is 
always  a  double  activity — the  primary  mental  activity  in- 
volved in  plan  or  design ;  the  secondary  motor  activity 
concerned  in  the  execution  of  the  plan  or  design.  The 
failure  of  the  present  school  is  that  it  exercises  the  mind, 
but  stops  at  the  point  where  thought  tends  to  pass  out 
into  action.  This  error  is  by  no  means  corrected  when  the 
school  adds  to  its  equipment  a  gymnasium,  or  encourages 
the  playing  of  foot-ball  or  base-ball.  The  failure  of  the 
present  workshop,  in  its  turn,  is  that  it  employs  the  motor 
energies,  but  does  not  admit  of  original  design.  And  this 
error  is  not  counteracted  when  some  individual  is  secured 
to  do  the  thinking  and  designing  for  the  whole  com- 
munity of  workers.  In  the  school  we  get  unreal  thinking ; 
from  the  workshop  we  get  unintelligent  work.  In  both 
cases  the  education  is  partial,  and  so  far  as  I  can  see,  the 
education  of  the  school  is  as  imperfect  as  that  of  the  fac- 
tory. If  the  one  tends  to  increase  stupidity  and  ignorance, 
the  other  tends  to  develop  priggishness  and  pride.  I  have 
been  reading  with  much  amusement  the  account  of  two 
educated  men  in  Ernest  Crosby's  "Plain  Talk  in  Psalm 
and  Parable :" 

"Here  are  two  educated  men. 

The  one  hag  a  smattering  of  Latin  and  Greek; 

The  other  knows  the  speech  and  habits  of  horses  and  cattle, 
and  gives  them  their  food  in  due  season. 

The  one  is  acquainted  with  the  roots  of  nouns  and  verbs; 

The  other  can  tell  you  how  to  plant  and  dig  potatoes  and  car- 
rots and  turnips. 

The  one  drums  by  the  hour  on  the  piano,  making  it  a  terror 
to  the  neighborhood; 


THE   WORKSHOP  AND   SCHOOL  245 

The  other  is  an  expert  at  the  reaper  and  binder,  which  fills 

the  world  with  good  cheer. 
The  one  knows  or  has  forgotten  the  higher  trigonometry  and 

the  differential  calculus; 
The  other  can  calculate   the  bushels  of  rye  standing  in  his 

field  and  the  number  of  barrels  to  buy  for  the   apples 

on  the  trees  in  his  orchard. 
The  one  understands  the  chemical  affinities  of  various  poisonous 

acids  and  alkalies; 

The  other  can  make  a  savoury  soup  or  a  delectable  pudding. 
The  one  sketches  a  landscape  indifferently; 
The  other  can  shingle  his  roof  and  build  a  shed  for  himself  in 

workmanlike  manner. 
The   one  has   heard   of   Plato   and   Aristotle   and   Kant   and 

Comte,  but  knows  precious  little  about  them; 
The  other  has  never  been  troubled  by  such  knowledge,  but  he 

will  learn  the  first  and   last  word   of  philosophy,  "to 

love,"  far  quicker,  I  warrant  you,  than  his  collage-bred 

neighbor. 
For  still  is  it  true  that  God  has  hidden  these  things  from  the 

wise  and  prudent  and  revealed  them  unto  babes. 
Such  are  the  two  educations: 
Which  is  the  higher  and  which  the  lower?" 

As  Mr.  Crosby  states  the  case,  his  question  can  receive 
but  one  answer.  The  educated  man  is  the  workman,  and 
he  is  educated  precisely  because  he  has  combined  the  two 
factors  of  mental  and  motor  activity.  The  farm  is  still  a 
place  where  a  workman  may  think  out  his  task,  but  I  be- 
lieve we  can  do  better  in  the  improved  workshop.  I  do 
not  care  whether  you  introduce  manual  training  into  the 
school,  or  whether  you  carry  freedom  to  the  factory. 
The  modification  of  either  institution  in  the  direction  I 
have  indicated  will  result  in  the  new  workshop  which 
educative  industrialism  demands.  It  is  likely,  however, 
that  the  school  will  be  the  first  to  suffer  change.  It  will 


246  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

be  easier  to  persuade  the  schools  to  engage  in  real  pro- 
cesses than  to  train  workmen  to  think  about  the  work. 
The  doom  of  the  old  school  was  pronounced  when  the  first 
work-bench  was  let  into  the  basement  or  garret  or  unused 
class-room.  The  work-bench  is  destined  to  crowd  out  the 
desks  and  text -books  and  the  other  signs  of  passive  learn- 
ing. Now  we  have  a  fair  chance  of  getting  what  Kropot- 
kin  well  calls  "integral  education."  It  is  probable  that 
the  schools  will  be  the  first  of  our  institutions  to  be  demo- 
cratized. And  it  may  be  that,  by  way  of  the  school,  the 
industrial  system  will  itself  be  transformed. 

I  have  suggested  also  that  the  workshop  might  be  the 
unit  of  the  community  organization.  When  it  becomes 
the  function  of  states  to  develop  and  conserve  industries — 
when  we  magnify  industrial  instead  of  legal  relationships, 
the  workmen  who  may  unite  to  form  a  guild  will  have  an 
importance  not  now  accorded  them.  Membership  in  a  guild 
would  constitute  citizenship  with  its  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities. The  workshop  would  be  a  place  for  the  develop- 
ment of  community  consciousness.  I  perceive  already  in 
the  "labor  unions"  the  vague  working  of  such  a  conscious- 
ness. A  "Labor  Party,"  however,  competing  with  politi- 
cal parties  for  political  ends  and  legal  rights,  would  seem 
to  be  a  very  illogical  outcome  of  such  consciousness.  An 
industrial  structure  can  never  be  laid  upon  a  political  or 
legal  foundation,  industrial  democracy  being  a  co-part- 
nership of  men  and  not  a  government  of  laws.  A  State 
boundary  line,  for  instance,  is  a  legal  fiction,  and  its  truth 
is  challenged  by  every  railroad  line  that  crosses  it.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  know  what  institutional  forms  will  arise 
upon  the  ground  of  the  workshop,  but  I  can  see  that  they 
must  be  different  from  those  we  now  possess. 


THE    WORKSHOP   AND    SCHOOL  247 

The  religious  aspect  of  the  workshop  is  summed  up  in 
the  word  brotherhood,  or  comradeship.  Take  away  from 
labor  its  compulsion,  let  one  be  free  to  choose  his  asso- 
ciates in  work  as  freely  as  he  is  now  able  to  join  a  church 
or  club,  and  an  opportunity  for  comradeship  will  be  given 
that  does  not  now  exist  in  the  world  of  labor.  The  nexus 
in  nearly  all  industrial  enterprises  is  the  wage,  and  men 
are  forced  to  work  together  whether  that  association  be 
pleasing  or  not.  With  a  freer  system  of  labor,  it  might  be 
possible  to  restore  to  the  workshop  that  courtesy  and  sym- 
pathy, once  so  common,  but  now  so  rarely  met  with.  The 
working  classes  are  not  merely  "unchurched;"  they  are, 
from  their  conditions  of  work,  quite  generally  irreligious, 
But  I  am  sure  that  it  was  for  the  members  of  the  recon- 
structed workshop  that  Whitman  wrote  his  poems  of  com- 
radeship, the  group  called  "Calamus,"  representing  the 
new  ideas  of  chivalry,  and  especially  the  poems  entitled, 
"I  Hear  It  was  Charged  against  Me,"  and  "I  Dream'd 
in  a  Dream": 

"I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy 

institutions, 

But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  institutions, 
What   indeed   have   I   in  common  with   them?  or   what   with 

the  destruction  of  them? 
Only  I  will  establish  in  the  Mannahatta  and  in  every  city  of 

these  States  inland  and  seaboard, 
And  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  above  every  keel  little  or  large 

that  dents  the  water, 

Without  edifices  or  rules  or  trustees  or  any  argument, 
The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  comrades." 
A  more  practical  or  more  beautiful  religion  than  this 
I  do  not  know. 
This,  then,  is  my  conception  of  an  ideal  workshop  or 


248  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

school — a  conception  made  of  the  specialized  ideas  of 
factory,  studio,  school,  state  and  church — a  synthesis 
that  is  forced  upon  the  mind  from  the  desire  to  coun- 
teract the  terrible  devisive  and  disintegrating  forces 
in  modern  life.  I  feel  certain  that  we  are  approaching 
a  period  of  synthesis  and  correlation.  The  competitive 
system  is  nearing  its  fall.  Specialization  has  been  car- 
ried to  an  extreme  and  in  the  near  future  we  must  co- 
ordinate specialties.  We  are  beginning  to  think  with 
Ruskin  that  men  may  be  of  more  value  than  products. 
If  you  think  that  what  I  have  presented  be  unpracti- 
cal, let  it  be  noted  that  I  have  introduced  no  factors  that 
do  not  already  exist,  and  that  I  have  but  read  the  perfect 
logic  of  the  situation.  In  some  way,  we  shall  arrive 
at  this  conclusion — must  so  arrive  from  the  very  pres- 
sure of  social  forces. 

Whitman  was  once  asked  to  write  a  poem  for  the 
opening  of  an  industrial  exposition  in  New  York  city. 
The  theme  was  to  him  an  inspiring  one,  since  beyond  all 
other  seers,  he  cherished  the  vision  of  an  idustrial  com- 
monwealth. From  the  Song  of  the  Exposition  he 
wrote  for  that  occasion,  I  take  these  lines : 

"Mightier  than  Egypt's  tombs, 
Fairer  than  Grecia's,  Roma's  temples, 
Prouder     than  Milan's  statued,  spired  cathedral, 
More  picturesque  than  Rhenish  castle-keeps, 
We  plan  even  now  to  raise,  beyond  them  all, 
Thy  great  cathedral,  sacred  industry,  no  tomb, 
A  keep  for  life,  for  practical  invention." 


A  SCHOOL  OF  INDUSTRIAL  ART. 

I. 

"The  ideal  university,"  James  Russell  Lowell  once 
said,  "is  a  place  where  nothing  useful  is  taught."  It 
is  clear  that  Lowell  approved  a  purely  intellectual  and 
aesthetic  education.  He  meant  that  the  school  should 
be  controlled  as  little  as  possible  by  practical  needs, 
should  lie  outside  of  employments  or  other  conditions, 
and  be  devoted. to  increasing  capacity  of  enjoying 
books  and  art  and  enriching  passively  the  spiritual 
life.  The  transcendental  conception  of  education  is 
lordly,  ideal  and  attractive,  and  in  a  state  of  society 
that  permits  the  maintenance  of  a  leisure  class  it  is 
an  ideal  of  ready  acceptance.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it 
was  the  ideal  cherished  by  the  New  England  colleges 
throughout  their  early  history,  whose  model  instructor 
was  at  once  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  as  a  con- 
sequence of  their  influence,  education  in  America  has 
been  associated  largely  with  the  leisuristic  and  pe- 
cuniary classes.  While  nominally  open  to  all,  our 
schools  have  always  been  schools  of  privilege.  The 
primary  three  Rs  are  fundamentals  only  of  an  intel- 
lectual culture.  The  New  England  colleges  built  up 
a  genuine  aristocracy,  which  was  not  less  inclusive  in 
that  it  was  intellectual,  or,  as  the  saying  is,  "an  aris- 
tocracy of  brains,"  which,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
European  feudalism  of  family,  was  asserted  proudjly 


250  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

to  be  the  "only  aristocracy  worthy  the  name."  Mean- 
while the  American  people,  as  to  their  masses,  were 
developing  their  vast  industrial  system,  and  the 
leisuristic  tendency  was  crossed  and  recrossed  by 
the  industrial  stream.  In  the  effort  latterly  to 
reconstruct  an  education  more  in  harmony  with  the 
social  democracy,  the  first  intention  was  to  extend  the 
privilege  of  education  to  all  members  of  the  social 
whole.  During  this  period  of  reconstruction,  through 
liberal  public  and  private  endowments,  a  widely  ex- 
tended and  nearly  inclusive  system  of  popular  educa- 
tion has  been  established.  But  for  the  most  part  the 
education  thus  extended  was  the  same  education  of 
privilege  that  had  its  rise  in  the  leisure  class.  Hence, 
the  emphasis  placed  upon  the  mere  symbols  of  learn- 
ing, reading  and  writing.  The  tendency  is  still  to  cre- 
ate a  culture  representative  of  caste.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  modifications  in  the  scope  of  the  school  forced 
by  the  industrial  democracy,  such  as  are  signified  by 
technical,  commercial,  and  manual  training  depart- 
ments in  the  midst  of  cultural  studies,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  the  leisure-class  theory  of  education 
is  still  in  the  ascendent.  The  benefits  of  even  the 
public  schools,  supported  though  they  are  by  general 
taxation,  accrue  to  an  intellectual  aristocracy.  The 
divorce  between  the  hand  and  the  brain,  which  is  de- 
structive of  any  genuine  integral  education,  continues 
in  full  force.  The  people,  as  to  their  industrial  ac- 
tivities, remain  unserved  and  even  unrecognized. 
Except  in  certain  schools  for  Indians  and  negroes  it 
is  not  possible  today  to  receive  instruction  in  the  fun- 
damentals of  industrial  education.  What  is  needed  at 


A  SCHOOL  OP  INDUSTRIAL  ART  251 

this  juncture  is  not  a  further  extension  of  an  education 
of  privilege,  but  the  complete  abrogation  of  privilege 
and  the  establishment  of  schools  upon  entirely  new 
grounds.  Mr.  Albert  Shaw,  in  a  paper  descriptive  of 
Hampton  Institute,  recently  made  the  statement  that 
"the  finest,  soundest,  and  most  effective  educational 
methods  in  use  in  the  United  States  are  to  be  found  in 
certain  schools  for  negroes  and  Indians,  and  in  others 
for  young  criminals  in  reformatory  prisons."  Can  it 
be  that  Hampton  Institute,  founded  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  negroes  in  the  fundamental  employments,  is 
the  model  institute  for  America !  Such  may  prove  to 
be  the  case.  The  time  has  come  for  schools  whose  aim 
shall  be  to  serve  the  needs  of  modern  industrial  de- 
mocracy, that  shall  build  upon  that  fine  instinct  for 
workmanship  that  is  the  very  life  of  industry  when  not 
permeated  by  caste, — schools  that  shall  declare :  "The 
ideal  university  is  a  place  where  nothing  useless  is 
taught."  It  belongs  to  an  aristocracy  to  support  the 
useless — useless  garments,  ceremonies,  athletics,  learn- 
ing and  whatnot — as  the  sign  of  an  ability  to  indulge 
itself  in  reputable  expenditure.  A  democracy  justifies 
its  existence  on  the  ground  of  its  usefulness,  its  ability 
to  create  and  do,  and  its  faculty  to  enjoy  creating  and 
doing.  The  new  school  will  start  with  the  construc- 
tive energies ;  it  will  unite  the  senses  and  the  soul ;  it 
will  employ  the  hand  equally  with  the  brain;  it  will 
exalt  the  active  over  the  passive  life;  it  will  love 
knowledge  for  its  service;  it  will  make  a  real  and  not 
a  false  use  of  books ;  it  will  test  production  not  alone 
by  its  pecuniary  results  but  by  human  values — whether 
it  yields  pleasure  or  pain.  The  problem  of  democratic 


252  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

education  is  not  to  give  the  people  a  culture  alien  to 
their  lives,  but  to  transform  that  which  they  have  into 
something  more  rational  and  harmonious.  The  old 
humanities  were  secured  by  refining  and  secluding; 
the  new  humanities  will  be  discovered  among  the  peo- 
ple The  chief  agency  of  popular  education  will  be  the 
very  labor  through  which  life  is  sustained.  Industry 
employs  the  mind  that  its  work  may  be  intelligent;  it 
provides  for  moral  training  in  that  its  work  must  be 
sincere. 

The  folly  of  the  extension  of  an  exclusive  culture  is 
made  very  evident  in  the  case  of  the  American  negro. 
When  released  from  slavery  he  became,  through  the 
zeal  of  "Northern  abolitionists,  a  victim  of  an  intel- 
lectual civilization.  He  was  provided  with  schools 
of  the  Northern  type,  instructed  in  the  caste  distinc- 
tions of  New  England,  and  directed  henceforth  to  live 
by  his  wits.  The  assumption  of  the  superiority  of 
separate  mental  training  is  proven  by  the  history  of 
the  negro  to  be  untrue.  It  is  now  conceded  that  the 
philanthropic  policy  of  the  North  was  mistaken.  It 
was  not  access  to  libraries  or  knowledge  of  the  classics 
that  the  negro  needed ;  and  not  necessarily  the  ability 
to  read  the  printed  ballot  the  North  placed  in  his 
hands.  His  field  is  that  of  the  elementary  employ- 
ments :  here  alone  is  his  energy  initial  and  educative. 
Hampton  Institute  demonstrated  the  way  of  entrance 
into  the  promised  land.  When  independent  in  ele- 
mentary labor,  the  negro  may  learn  an  independence 
of  wider  application. 

If  called  upon  to  write  a  prospectus  of  a  school 
fitted  for  industrial  democracy  I  would  not  have  in 


A  SCHOOL  OF  INDUSTRIAL  ART  253 

mind  a  trades-school  that  should  be  simply  an  ad- 
junct to  the  present  industrial  system,  though  I  am 
willing  to  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  such  a  school 
and  the  importance  of  the  present  system.  Calcula- 
tion should  be  made  of  tendencies  and  growth.  The 
domestic  system  of  production  gave  way  to  the  factory 
system  with  its  machinery,  and  this  in  its  turn  seems 
destined  to  yield  to  a  higher  industrialism  wherein  the 
individual  will  have  freer  scope  than  ever  before  to 
control  his  hand  and  brain,  and  will  need  therefore  a 
more  skillful  hand  and  a  more  cunning  brain.  Under 
present  conditions  of  specialization  the  master  is  sepa- 
rated from  the  man,  the  designer  from  his  tool.  These 
conditions  would  require  that  the  tool  be  sharpened 
for  the  designer,  that  the  man  be  disciplined  for  the 
master.  However  advantageous  this  relationship 
may  be  economically  it  has  little  value  educationally. 
It  destroys  the  totality  of  work  and  the  integrity  of 
life.  It  sinks  the  individual  in  the  product.  It  per- 
mits no  one  in  the  whole  series  of  specialized  activi- 
ties to  be,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term,  a  creator.  It 
tends  to  develop  experts,  but  not  full  rounded  men.  It 
is  almost  totally  defective  in  idealism.  The  theory  of 
the  new  industrialism  is  that  in  industry  the  whole  of 
life  may  be  contained.  The  true  workman  loves  his 
craft  for  its  life  quality,  because  the  thing  upon  which 
he  works  is  somehow  a  part  of  his  own  inner  ideal. 
His  work  must  be  creative  and  in  becoming  creative  it 
is  also  educative.  If  this  theory  of  independent  in- 
dustry seems  to  be  in  opposition  to  the  machine  and 
the  trust,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  machine,  through  be- 
coming more  and  more  automatic — and  a  self-acting 


254  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

machine  is  promised  by  physicists — and  the  corpora- 
tion, through  greater  and  greater  centralization,  will 
bring  about  the  release  of  innumerable  agents  now  en- 
gaged in  production  and  control,  and  permit  their 
advance  to  a  more  intelligent  private  workmanship. 
The  plea  for  a  new  education  is  necessarily  linked  with 
an  argument  for  a  new  industrialism. 

The  new  industrialism  embodies  first  of  all  as  a  fun- 
damental factor  the  principle  of  self-activity.  So  long 
as  a  man  works  for  another,  or  after  another's  plans  or 
designs,  he  is  not  self-directive  and  his  work  is  not 
therefore  educative.  The  individual  is  to  be  treated 
as  integral,  having  his  own  talents  to  employ  and  his 
own  faculties  to  exercise.  Under  conditions  of  free- 
dom industry  changes  its  character  and  becomes 
aesthetic.  Beauty  is  whatever  is  added  to  an  object  to 
make  it  expressive.  In  an  object  of  utility  it  is  the  sign 
of  the  pleasure  the  maker  takes  in  his  own  activities. 
It  is  the  flowering  of  labor,  the  decoration  of  materials 
at  the  hand  of  a  free  workman.  The  new  school  brings 
art  and  labor  into  necessary  association — labor  to  give 
substance,  art  to  yield  pleasure. 

The  same  principle  of  self-activity  provides  for  the 
inherency  of  the  design.  The  separation  between  the 
designer  and  his  mechanical  or  human  tool  is  detri- 
mental to  both  the  designer  and  the  workman.  This 
form  of  specialization  implies  that  a  brain  is  not  motor 
and  that  hands  are  not  intelligent.  With  proper  care 
during  the  first  stages  of  education  the  hand  and  the 
brain  become  co-ordinated  and  the  best  brain  coin- 
cides with  the  best  hands.  When  working  in  separa- 
tion the  brain  tends  to  refine  and  to  weaken  its  tissues, 


A  SCHOOL  OF  INDUSTRIAL  ART  255 

and  the  hand  to  coarsen  and  become  mechanical.  After 
centuries  of  such  divorce  the  fine  arts  on  the  one  hand 
have  become  too  refined  for  industrial  use,  and  indus- 
try on  the  other  hand  is  too  coarse  for  the  artist.  The 
breach  between  the  castes  is  not  closed  when  the  artist 
condescends  to  design  for  the  workman :  the  division 
ought  not  to  exist.  It  would  be  the  function  of  the  new 
school  to  create  a  class  of  craftsmen  who  would  have 
ideas  to  communicate  and  perfect  rhetorical  skill  for 
their  expression. 

To  associate  art  and  industry :  to  change  the  charac- 
ter of  labor  so  as  to  make  industry  educative,  and  to 
develop  the  instinct  of  workmanship  and  elicit  the 
pleasure  belonging  to  good  workmanship  so  as  to 
make  the  industrial  life  complete — such  may  be  said 
to  be  the  aims  of  industrial  education. 


II. 


The  aim  of  the  school  is  suggestive  of  its  proper 
designation.  The  term  Manual-Training  has  come 
into  popular  use  as  descriptive  of  institutes  or  depart- 
ments of  schools  that  seek  to  educate  the  hand.  The 
objection  to  the  title  is  that,  having  arisen  at  a  time 
when  the  caste  divisions  between  the  hand  and  brain 
were  in  force,  it  represents  the  opposition  between 
manual  training  and  mental  training,  whereas  the  new 
education  is  not  primarily  manual  and  afterwards 
mental,  but  wholly  integral.  Trade  School  and  Indus- 
trial Institute  seem  to  emphasize  too  much  the  me- 
chanical and  professional  aspects.  The  term  Arts 


256  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

and  Crafts  is  advocated  as  representing  the  fusion  of 
mental  and  manual  education,  but  while  descriptive, 
the  term  is  awkward.  I  have  chosen  as  an  equally 
significant  and  more  dignified  appellation,  the  caption : 
Industrial  Art. 


III. 


The  location  of  a  School  of  Industrial  Art  is  a  most 
important  matter  for  reflection.  It  should  be  in  the 
environs  of  a  large  industrial  city,  not  so  far  from  the 
city  as  to  obscure  the  commercial  and  social  bearing 
of  industry,  and  not  so  far  from  nature  as  to  lose  the 
suggestiveness  of  natural  forms  and  growths.  Fields, 
streams,  and  woods  should  be  accessible.  It  would  be 
necessary  to  maintain  a  garden  for  the  propagation  of 
plants  for  scientific  and  industrial  purposes.  In  order 
that  the  local  flora  and  fauna  may  provide  the  basic 
motive  for  design  it  is  essential  that  with  these  forms 
there  should  be  intimate  and  loving  association.  Na- 
ture alone  initiates.  If  either  factor  is  to  be  ignored  it 
should  be  the  city  rather  than  the  country  that  should 
be  abandoned. 


IV. 


The  building  should  be  substantial  but  need  not  be 
conspicuous  or  in  any  way  extravagant.  The  tendency 
of  the  leisure  classes  is  to  uphold  their  reputability  by 
vain  expense  and  useless  display.  Let  an  industrial 


A  SCHOOL  OF   INDUSTRIAL  ART  257 

school  be  at  least  sincere.  The  architecture  should  be 
native,  its  styles  suggested  by  the  buildings'  use,  its 
symbols  indicative  of  the  social  environment.  All 
evolution  of  structure  represents,  of  course,  growth 
out  of  the  past ;  but  it  is  more  necessary  in  the  case  of 
an  industrial  school  to  create  types  for  future  use, 
however  simple,  than  to  employ  the  mature  and  com- 
plex modes  of  past  stages  of  civilization.  However, 
if  an  historic  style  should  be  preferred,  study  may  be 
given  to  the  Gothic  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries,  when  the  prophecy  of  a  people's  art  was  first  ut- 
tered, when  there  was  the  most  complete  co-operation 
between  artist  and  workman.  But  happy  the  architect 
who  can  take  his  stand  among  the  people  of  his  own 
time,  realize  the  significance  of  the  modern  forces,  and 
create  symbols  and  styles  for  democracy.  The  build- 
ings should  be  of  such  a  size  and  character  as  to  pro- 
vide class-rooms,  laboratories,  a  museum,  a  library, 
and  other  features  dependent  upon  the  scope  of  the 
school. 


V. 


Instruction  would  proceed  upon  the  belief  that  in 
the  work  of  the  nature  I  have  described,  and  in  the 
knowledge  attendant  upon  such  work,  the  integral  per- 
sonality may  be  contained,  and  from  work  and  the 
knowledge  necessary  to  make  work  intelligent  the 
fullest  democratic  culture  is  to  be  achieved.  A  few 
principles  will  govern  the  emphasis  of  instruction. 
The  aim  of  the  school  being  to  employ  the  creative 


258  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

energies,  the  work-shops  become  the  central  feature. 
From  the  work-shops  all  other  interests  radiate ;  back 
to  them  the  results  of  laboratories  and  class-rooms  re- 
turn. As  a  plan,  an  ideal,  is  the  initial  stage  of  any 
work,  especial  attention  should  be  given  to  the  study 
of  design — not  design  in  the  abstract  so  much  as  de- 
sign in  relation  to  given  materials  and  usage.  From 
general  culture  and  science  those  studies  will  be  se- 
lected which  are  best  calculated  to  equip  a  workman 
with  ideas  and  to  render  his  work  intelligent.  These 
principles  lead  to  a  threefold  division  of  the  work  of 
the  school,  according  as  design,  construction,  or  in- 
struction receives  the  emphasis.  In  the  drawing- 
rooms  training  would  be  given  in  free-hand,  mechani- 
cal and  architectural  drawing,  representation  of  nature 
and  the  human  figure,  clay-modeling,  composition, 
color  and  decoration.  In  the  work-shops,  equipped 
with  hand  and  power  tools,  furnaces,  dyevats,  presses 
and  other  necessary  appliances,  would  develop  all  the 
constructive  processes  in  wood,  metal,  leather,  stone, 
glass,  the  earths,  paper  and  textiles.  Adjacent  to  the 
designing  rooms  and  work-shops  would  be  chemical 
and  biological  laboratories  and  the  general  experimen- 
tal rooms.  In  the  class-rooms  would  proceed  instruc- 
tion in  geography,  history,  psychology,  the  English 
language,  rhetoric  and  general  literature.  In  tabu- 
lated form  the  work  of  the  school  would  appear  accord- 
ing to  the  following  scheme : 

S(l)  Drawing 
(2)   Clay  Modeling 
(3)   Composition 


A   SCHOOL  OF  INDUSTRIAL  ART 


259 


II.    THE  WORK  SHOPS 


f    (1)  Decoration 

(2)  Printing  and  Book 

Binding. 
Construction  in 

(3)  Wood 

(4)  Metal 

(5)  Leather 

(6)  Paper 

(7)  Stone 

(8)  Glass 

(9)  The  Earths 
(10)  Textiles 


III. 


DEPARTMENT  OF  SCIENCE  AND  ART 

r    (1)  History 

(2)  Political  Science 
•j     (3)  Sociology 
(.    (4)   Economy 
(     (1)  Psychology 
{     (2)  Ethics 
]     (1)   Numbers 
(     (2)  Geometry 

{(1)  English  Language 
(2)  Rhetoric 
(3)  Music 
(4)  Literature 
{(1)   Geography 
(2)   Physics 
(3)  Chemistry 
(4)  Biology 

It  is  understood  that  the  work  of  any  pupil  is  to 
be  co-ordinated  as  fully  as  possible.  While  a  general 
course,  say  of  chemistry,  may  be  undertaken,  yet  the 
chief  function  of  chemistry  in  the  school  would  be  to 
assist  those  engaged  in  work  involving  a  knowledge  of 
chemistry  for  its  prosecution.  Printing  would  be  as- 


A.     The  History  Group 


B.  The  Philosophy  Group 

C.  The  Mathematical  Group 


D.    The  Art  Group 


E.     The  Science  Group 


260  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

sociated  with  composition,  free-hand  lettering  and 
page  decoration,  illustration,  the  related  processes  of 
paper  making  and  bookbinding,  and  the  general  his- 
tory of  language  and  of  human  culture.  The  history, 
philosophy  and  art  groups  that  have  reference  to  more 
general  ideals  would  be  more  universally  prescribed. 
Of  the  cultural  subjects  geography  and  the  history 
group  which  disclose  the  development  of  the  earth  as 
the  home  of  the  human  race  and  the  evolution  of  man 
in  his  industrial,  economic  and  artistic  aspects,  are  the 
most  important.  Free-hand  drawing  in  various  color 
media,  modeling  in  clay,  composition,  music,  language 
and  rhetoric  are  fundamental  courses  in  the  art  of  ex- 
pression. Training  in  music  might  be  given  to  all  in 
daily  assembly.  Architectural  and  mechanical  draw- 
ing are  subservient  to  special  needs.  The  processes  of 
the  work-shop  all  relate  to  objects  of  social  utility, 
and  while  primarily  educative  of  personality,  aim  to 
prepare  pupils  for  professionalism  in  the  different 
crafts.  No  provision  is  made  in  this  plan  for  the  study 
of  language  other  than  English,  all  other  literatures 
being  used  in  translation.  Physical  culture  as  an  in- 
dependent object  is  rendered  unnecessary  by  reason 
of  the  absorbtion  of  physical  energy  in  the  work-shops, 
though  opportunity  should  be  given  for  the  recreation  of 
outdoor  sports. 

This  scheme  contemplates  the  complete  harmoniza- 
tion of  all  the  incidents  of  education  in  line  with  the 
general  democratic  import  of  the  school :  the  centrali- 
zation of  administration,  but  fully  co-operative  instruc- 
tion ;  the  individual  treatment  of  pupils  according  to 
capacity  and  intention;  free  education,  under  counsel, 


A  SCHOOL  OF  INDUSTRIAL  ART  261 

both  as  to  choice  of  work  and  the  time  employed;  the 
co-ordination  of  courses;  a  continuous  session  of  the 
school  without  special  assemblage  or  ceremonials;  the 
giving  of  certificates  of  proficiency  (but  not  degrees)  ; 
the  encouragement  of  independent  organizations 
among  the  pupils;  and  instruction  above  all  else  in 
self-control. 

Such  a  school  may  be  wholly  autonomous,  itself  a 
free  creative  activity,  its  initiation  extending  even  to 
the  writing  and  printing  of  its  text-books  and  the  in- 
vention and  manufacture  of  its  tools  and  equipment. 
It  would  organize  research  into  fields  that  are  today 
almost  untouched  by  trained  explorers — the  field  of 
industrial  physics  and  industrial  chemistry.  A  lab- 
oratory devoted  to  the  problem  of  the  industrial  appli- 
cation of  energy  might  become  a  factor  in  racial  prog- 
ress. The  school  might  hope  to  become  a  training 
place  for  inventors. 


THE  PHILOSOPHIC  AND  RELIGIOUS 
GROUND:     WALT  WHITMAN. 

I. 

The  religious  system  of  Christendom,  in  almost 
the  entire  range  of  its  theologic  and  ethical  concep- 
tions, is  patriarchal,  monarchical,  or  feudal  in  origin 
and  character.  In  the  terms  "Our  Lord"  and  "Our 
Father"  the  whole  occidental  idea  of  divinity  is  con- 
tained. The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  was  modeled  upon 
the  kingdoms  known  to  men  at  the  time  when  the 
idea  was  first  conceived ;  only  in  the  place  of  a  weak, 
corrupt  and  defective  king,  there  was  substituted  a 
perfect  Being  whose  word  was  absolute  Truth  and 
whose  acts  constituted  absolute  Justice.  Around  the 
"Emperor  of  Heaven" — to  use  Dante's  phrase — vice- 
gerents of  lesser  realms  were  thought  to  subsist,  de- 
clining in  authority,  rank  by  rank,  to  the  lowest 
priest  in  the  earthly  hierarchy,  each  dispensing  truth 
and  justice  as  deputized  by  the  rulers  higher  in  the 
scale.  Over  a  realm  of  "chaos  and  old  night"  Satan 
and  his  myrmidons  ruled  in  identical  manner.  The 
philosophic  ground  of  this  system  is  known  as  dual- 
ism. 

Towards  their  various  rulers  mortals  held  the  re- 
lation of  vassals.  The  whole  theory  of  duty,  obliga- 
tion, punishment,  and  salvation,  the  very  attitude  men 
assumed  in  supplication,  was  feudal  in  character.  The 


THE  PHILOSOPHIC   AND   RELIGIOUS   GROUND  263 

very  term  Lord,  employed  to  describe  one  person  of 
the  triune  throne,  is  indicative  of  the  feudal  conception 
in  the  whole  warp  and  woof  of  western  theology.  In 
early  English  the  apostles  were  designated  also 
as  thegns,  the  title  for  the  lesser  nobility  or  kingly 
servitors.  The  ethical  codes,  corresponding  to  the 
monarchical  theology,  such  as  describe  the  relations  of 
men  to  their  rulers  or  to  their  compeers,  were  mili- 
tary in  effect.  "Thou  shalt"  and  "Thou  shalt  not" 
represent  the  ways  of  kings  to  their  servants.  A  sys- 
tem of  rites  and  ceremonials  was  further  invented  by 
the  priests  to  express  the  relation  of  lord  and  vassal. 
"Order" — to  use  Pope's  word,  meaning  gradation  or 
rank — being  "Heaven's  first  law,"  a  proper  series  of 
deadly  and  venial  sins  and  their  corresponding  vir- 
tues was  constructed,  and  up  the  painful  path  the  sub- 
jects of  the  King  were  enjoined  to  labor,  if  so  they 
might  enter  the  heavenly  kingdom  and  glorify  God 
forever. 

From  this  point  of  view  distinctions  were  drawn 
between  the  natural  and  the  spiritual.  In  so  far  as 
man  was  related  by  bodily  birth  and  inheritance  to 
the  order  of  Nature,  he  was  of  necessity  base,  corrupt- 
ible, sinful,  and  in  need  of  redemption;  in  so  far  as 
he  was  spiritual,  his  soul  tended  toward  the  good. 
Here  were  the  elements  mingled  for  an  unending  war- 
fare. For  its  help  the  soul  had  the  sword  of  the  spirit, 
the  breastplate  of  faith,  the  helmet  of  salvation,  the 
whole  armor  of  righteousness. 

God,  the  Divine  Ruler  of  the  Universe;  Man,  the 
vassal  under  surveillance;  Nature,  the  arena  of  con- 
flict :  such  are  the  three  general  terms  of  Christian 


264  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

theology  formulated  by  the  church  fathers,  subscribed 
to  by  Dante  and  Milton,  and  current  today  in  every  na- 
tion of  the  Occident.  Even  in  America,  the  organized 
churches  and  denominations,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  sub- 
sist upon  the  feudal  traditions.  Our  National  Hymn 
concludes  with  an  appeal  to  "Great  God,  our  King." 
Indeed  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  if  the  notion  of 
king  and  subject,  of  judge  and  convict,  were  discarded, 
if  the  dualistic  distinctions  relating  to  good  and  evil 
were  dismissed,  if  the  gulf  between  man  and  nature 
were  closed,  almost  the  whole  content  of  orthodox  theol- 
ogy would  be  dissipated  in  a  twinkling — and  yet  the 
whole  of  modern  life  would  remain.  The  creeds,  the 
homilies,  the  books  of  prayer,  the  codes  of  conduct 
bequeathed  the  churches  by  past  centuries,  offend  the 
scientific  and  self-dependent  mind.  The  future  belongs 
to  the  new  tendencies.  Either  the  churches  must  recon- 
struct their  systems  in  terms  of  democracy,  vitalize  their 
theology  by  renewal  at  the  founts  of  modern  life,  or 
simply  decline  in  influence  till  they  become  mere  anti- 
quarian symbols,  reminiscent  of  ancient  peoples  and  old 
beliefs.  Said  Emerson:  "We  too  must  write  Bibles  to 
unite  again  the  heavenly  and  the  earthly  world." 


II. 


I  turn  for  illustration  of  what  may  be  done  in  formulat- 
ing a  new  and  modernized  theology  to  Whitman's 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  the  one  book  of  considerable  impor- 
tance known  to  me  that  breaks  utterly  with  feudal  forms 
and  assumes  the  processes  of  democracy,  and  that  is  at 


THE   PHILOSOPHIC  AND   RELIGIOUS   GROUND  265 

the  same  time  intentionally  religious  in  basic  purpose. 
"I  will  see,"  Whitman  said  to  himself,  "whether  there  is 
not,  for  my  purposes  as  poet,  a  religion,  and  a  sound 
religious  germinancy  in  the  average  human  race,  and  in 
the  hardy  common  fibre  and  native  yearnings  and  ele- 
ments, deeper  and  larger,  and  affording  more  profitable 
returns,  than  all  mere  sects  or  churches — as  boundless, 
joyous,  and  vital  as  Nature  itself — a  germinancy  that 
has  been  too  long  unencouraged,  unsung,  almost  un- 
known. The  time  has  certainly  come  to  begin  to  dis- 
charge the  idea  of  religion  from  mere  ecclesiasticism, 
and  from  Sundays  and  churches  and  church-going,  and 
assign  it  to  that  general  position,  chiefest,  most  indis- 
pensible,  most  exhilarating,  to  which  the  others  are  to  be 
adjusted,  inside  of  all  human  character,  and  education, 
and  affairs.  The  people,  especially  the  young  men  and 
women  of  America,  must  begin  to  learn  that  religion  is 
something  far,  far  different  from  what  they  supposed. 
It  is  indeed,  too  important  to  the  power  and  perpetuity 
of  the  New  World  to  be  consigned  any  longer  to  the 
churches,  old  or  new,  Catholic  or  Protestant — Saint  this, 
or  Saint  that  It  must  be  consigned  thenceforth  to  dem- 
ocracy en  masse,  and  to  literature." 

More  than  any  other  thinker  of  his  generation  Whit- 
man realized  the  need  of  creating  new  religious  ideals 
for  America,  new  "mind  formulas"  as  real  and  large  and 
sane  as  the  continent  itself,  and  while  acknowledging  to 
the  full  the  indebtedness  of  America  to  "venerable  priestly 
Asia"  and  "royal  feudal  Europe"  he  accepted  the  oppor- 
tunity of  a  new  world  and  a  new  time  to  plant  the  seeds 
of  a  new  gospel.  "I  too,  following  many  and  followed 
by  many,  inaugurate  a  new  religion."  It  was  not  his 


266  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

purpose,  however,  to  organize  another  religious  sect, 
but,  acting  as  a  poet  and  not  as  a  priest,  to  arouse  the 
religious  consciousness  in  men  and  women  so  they  might 
be  religious  in  themselves  and  write  Bibles  and  creeds 
at  the  height  of  their  enlightenment.  Of  himself  he 
said:  "I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,  and 
was  never  measured  and  never  will  be  measured."  And 
to  those  who  would  become  his  followers  he  gave  warn- 
ing: 

"I  tramp  a  perpetual  journey, 
My  signs  are  a  rain-proof  coat,  good  shoes,  and  a  staff  cut 

from  the  woods, 

No  friend  of  mine  takes  his  ease  in  my  chair, 
I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy, 
I  lead  no  man  to  a  dinner -table,  library,  exchange, 
But  each  man  and  each  woman  of  you  I  lead  upon  a  knoll, 
My  left  hand  hooking  you  round  the  waist, 
My  right  hand  pointing  to  landscapes  of  continents  and  the 

public  road, 

Not  I,  not  any  one  else  can  travel  that  road  for  you, 
You  must  travel  it  for  yourself." 

The  capacity  of  any  individual  to  write  passages  of 
experience  for  inclusion  in  the  Bible  of  the  race  is 
claimed  on  the  ground  of  the  essential  centrality  of 
thought  in  the  universe.  Whitman  is  the  author  of  a  new 
anthropomorphism.  Wherever  anyone  stands  there  is 
the  center  of  all  days  and  all  races,  the  past  summed  up, 
•  the  future  foretold,  all  antecedents  tallied,  all  laws  real- 
ized, all  objects  encompassed.  Bibles  and  religions  pro- 
ceed out  of  the  heart  of  man  and  the  issues  of  life  as 
leaves  from  the  trees  and  as  the  trees  spring  from  the  ever 
pregnant  soil. 

The  philosophic  ground  of  Whitman's  work  is  modern- 


THE   PHILOSOPHIC   AND   RELIGIOUS   GROUND  267 

Iy  known  as  monism,  or  the  conception  of  the  unitary 
nature  of  the  universe.  This  is  not  to  say,  as  promised 
by  metaphysics,  that  the  universe  is  resolved  into  any 
single  property,  as  mind  or  motion,  from  which  every- 
thing else  is  derived,  but  that  the  universe  is  one  universe, 
organized  into  one  system.  Whitman  is  the  first  great 
prophet  of  cosmic  democracy.  In  the  circle  of  life  not 
one  thing  is  alien,  not  one  disenfranchised,  not  one 
thrust  out  and  doomed  to  failure.  A  vast  similitude  in- 
terlocks all.  His  great  words  are  unity,  fusion,  envelop, 
enclose,  ensemble,  encompass,  identity — the  "flowing 
eternal  identity"— -evolution,  and  immortality.  He  is  the 
"true  poet"  of  his  own  song,  the  "full-grown  poet,"  who 
takes  nature  by  one  hand  and  the  soul  of  man  by  the 
other  and  stands  between  the  two  as  blender,  reconciler, 
and  lover.  The  entire  volume  of  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
is  dedicated  to  the  cause  of  unity — unity  in  oneself, 
unity  with  others  in  love  and  comradeship,  unity  of  states 
in  nationalism,  unity  of  mankind  in  a  spiritual  identifica- 
tion. In  separate  poems  he  showed  his  own  identity  with 
the  sun-set  breeze,  with  the  husky-haughty  sea,  accepted 
his  relations  with  animals,  and  claimed  all  men  and 
women  as  his  lovers  and  comrades.  Almost  his  most 
passionate  poems  relate  to  his  love  of  nature's  elements. 

"I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 
Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close  magnetic  nourish- 
ing night! 

Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  large  few  stars! 
Still  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile,  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees! 


2C8  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty-topt! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 

blue! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for 

my  sake! 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth — rich  apple-blossom 'd  earth! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love — therefore  I  to  you  give  love ! 

0  unspeakable  passionate  love. 

You  sea !    I  resign  myself  to  you  also — I  guess  what  you  mean. 

1  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  inviting  fingers, 
I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back  without  feeling  of  me, 

We  must  have  a  turn  together,  I  undress,  hurry  me  out  of 

eight  of  the  land, 

Cushion  me  soft,  rock  me  in  billowy  drowse, 
Dash  me  with  amorous  wet,  I  can  repay  you. 

Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells, 

Sea  breathing  broad   and   convulsive  breaths, 

Sea  of  the  brine  of  life  and  of  unshovell'd  yet  always  ready 

graves, 

Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious  and  dainty  eea, 
I  am  integral  with  you,  I  too  am  of  one  phase  and  of  all 

phases. 
I  am  he  attesting  sympathy." 

On  its  passional  and  devotional  side  Whitman's  religion 
may  be  said  to  be  constituted  by  cosmic  enthusiasm. 

Comprehensive  as  is  the  scope  of  Whitman's  thought, 
familiar  as  is  his  usage  of  the  terms  God  and  Nature,  his 
doctrine  of  divinity  is  primarily  a  doctrine  of  Man.  After 
all  is  said  of  the  cosmos  that  can  be  said  in  celebration  he 
returns  to  the  center,  to  the  one  "chained  in  the  adamant 
of  Time"  from  whom  the  celebration  proceeds,  and  de- 
clares: "You  are  not  thrown  to  the  winds,  you  gather 


THE  PHILOSOPHIC  AND   RELIGIOUS  GROUND  269 

certainly  and  safely  around  yourself,  yourself!  yourself! 
yourself,  forever  and  ever!"  "The  whole  theory  of  the 
universe,"  he  affirms,  "is  directed  unerringly  to  one  sin- 
gle individual."  It  is  not  the  sky,  the  night,  the  sea,  that 
is  great :  it  is  the  individual  man  that  is  great.  "Dazzling 
and  tremendous,  how  quick  the  sun-rise  would  kill  me, 
if  I  could  not  now  and  always  send  sun-rise  out  of  me." 
For  the  individual  "the  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea"; 
for  him  "the  earth  is  solid  and  liquid" ;  for  him  "the  sun 
and  moon  stand  in  the  sky."  It  is  constantly  iterated  that 
"nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is." 
"I  sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  none,  not  God,  sooner 
than  I  sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  you."  "I  only  am 
he  who  places  over  you  no  master,  owner,  better,  God, 
beyond  what  waits  intrinsically  in  yourself." 

"What  do  you  suppose  creation  is? 
What  do  you  suppose  will  satisfy  the  soul,  except  to  walk  free 

and  own  no  superior? 
What  do  you  suppose  I  would  intimate  to  you  in  a  hundred 

ways,  but  that  man  or  woman  is  as  good  as  God? 
And  that  there  is  no  God  any  more  divine  than  yourself? 
And  that  is  what  the  oldest  and  the  newest  myths  finally 

mean?" 

With  sublime  rebellion  against  the  ideal  of  master  and 
lord  Whitman  announced  the  import  of  the  democratic 
man: 

"From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits  and  imaginary 
lines, 

Going  where  I  list,  my  own  master  total  and  absolute." 

He  values  the  "beauty  of  independence,  departure,  ac- 
tions that  rely  on  themselves."  He  praises  the  "bound- 
less impatience  of  restraint"  he  had  observed  among  the 


270  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

American  soldiery.     No  joy  is  greater  to  him  than  the 
joy  of  a  "manly  self-hood." 

"0  while  I  live  to  be  the  ruler  of  life,  not  a  slave, 
To  meet  life  as  a  powerful  conqueror, 

No  fumes,  no  ennui,  no  more  complaints  or  scornful  criticisms, 
To  these  proud  laws  of  the  air,   the  water  and  the  ground, 

proving  my  interior  soul  impregnable, 
And  nothing  exterior  shall  ever  take  command  of  me." 

A  radical  foundation  of  the  new  religion  is  the  divine 
pride  of  man  in  himself. 

The  supremacy  of  man  in  the  universe  is  due  to  the  es- 
sential creativity  of  thought.  In  an  idealistic  sense  the 
universe  is  created  and  upheld  by  thought.  No  thinker 
can  by  any  possible  means  escape  from  himself.  Space 
and  time  and  all  other  categories  whereby  the  universe 
is  known  are  methods  of  thinking.  The  universe,  in 
short,  as  humanly  known,  is  thought  thinking  itself. 
Within  the  same  circle  conceptions  of  deity  occur,  which 
are  commonly  the  highest  and  most  universal  ideals  the 
mind  can  form  in  respect  of  its  own  evolution.  "Man  is, 
and  always  has  been,"  John  Burroughs  declares,  "a  maker 
of  gods.  It  has  been  the  most  serious  and  significant 
occupation  of  his  sojourn  in  the  world."  When  an 
ideal  of  the  highest  good  ceases  to  serve  the  end  for 
which  it  was  created,  the  mind  sadly  and  painfully  de- 
stroys it  and  erects  a  higher  good  to  be  held  in  honor  in 
place  of  the  fallen  idol.  Prometheus  willed  that  Jupiter 
should  control  his  being :  when  the  god  became  tyrannous 
when  laws,  customs  and  decrees  hardened  and  became 
stereotyped,  the  same  will  pronounced  the  god's  eviction. 
All  along  the  pathway  of  thought  are  strewn  these 
pathetic  figures  of  idols  discredited  and  discarded.  The 


THE   PHILOSOPHIC   AND   RELIGIOUS   GROUND  271 

philosophic  mind  views  the  spectacle  without  regret.  Says 
the  wise  Maeterlinck :  "The  hour  when  a  lofty  conviction 
forsakes  us  should  never  be  one  of  regret.  If  a  belief 
we  have  clung  to  goes,  or  a  spring  snaps  within  us;  if 
we  at  last  dethrone  the  idea  that  so  long  has  held  sway, 
this  is  proof  of  utility,  progress,  of  our  marching  steadily 
onwards,  and  making  good  use  of  all  that  lies  to  our 
hand."  In  "Leaves  of  Grass"  the  God-idea  is  once  more 
corrected  and  modernized.  What  is  "the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world?"  The  greatest  minds  answer  that  the 
greatest  thing  is  Love.  Love,  when  concretized  in  human 
life  and  absorbed  in  personality,  produces  the  Lover,  the 
Comrade,  the  One  in  whom  all  other  lives  and  experiences 
are  contained  and  brought  together.  To  the  perfection 
of  Comradeship  the  whole  universe  tends.  All  forces 
have  been  steadily  employed  to  complete  the  Great  Com- 
panion. And  the  process  is  unending.  "My  rendezvous," 
says  the  poet,  "is  appointed,  it  is  certain." 
"Reckoning  ahead  0  soul,  when  thou,  the  time  achiev'd, 
The  seas  all  cross'd,  weather'd  the  capea,  the  voyage  done, 
Surrounded,  copest,  frontest  God,  yieldest,  the  aims  attain'd, 
As  fill'd  with  friendship,  love  complete,  the  Elder  Brother 

found, 
The  Younger  melts  in  fondness  in  his  arms." 

In  the  illumination  of  this  thought  the  past  of  human 
life  is  interpreted. 

"Having  studied   the   new   and  antique,  the   Greek   and  Ger- 
manic systems, 
Kant  having  studied  and  stated,   Fichte  and   Schelling  and 

Hegel, 

Stated  the  lore  of  Plato,   and   Socrates  greater  than  Plato, 
And  greater  than  Socrates  sought  and  stated,  Christ  divine 
having  studied  long, 


272  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

I  see  reminiscent  today  those  Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 
See  the  philosophies  all,  Christian  churches  and  tenets  see, 
Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and  underneath  Christ  the 

divine  I  see, 
The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the  attraction  of  friend 

to  friend, 

Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife,  of  children  and  parents, 
Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land." 

From  the  height  of  this  vision  the  poet  perceives  the 
line  of  "compassionaters" — how  they  have  labored  to- 
gether to  transmit  the  same  charge  and  succession,  how 
they  enclose  continents,  castes  and  theologies,  and  how 
they  will  arise  the  whole  earth  over  till  times  and  eras 
are  saturated  and  the  men  and  women  of  races  prove 
lovers  and  comrades. 

It  is  certain  that  in  Comradeship  the  idea  of  Nature 
is  also  contained.  The  democratic  man  is  to  show 
affiliation  with  all  phenomena.  Of  course  nature  may 
be  known  objectively  by  the  intellectual  categories  of 
knowing:  but  the  real  knowledge  of  nature,  the  knowl- 
edge that  Whitman  had  in  view  when  he  said :  "I  say 
the  whole  earth  and  all  the  stars  in  the  sky  are  for  re- 
ligion's sake,"  is  subjective,  the  consciousness  of  identity 
and  kindred  impulses  among  all  created  things.  The 
poet  confronts  the  shows  of  the  day  and  night,  acknowl- 
edges their  copiousness,  then  absorbs  their  growths  into 
himself.  He  stands  and  looks  at  animals  and  they  display 
their  relations  with  him  and  show  tokens  of  himself  in 
their  possession.  There  is  no  smallest  particle  of  nature 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  soul.  From  the  "rolling  earth," 
the  "high-vibrating  stars,"  the  "mystical  moist  night- 
air,"  the  "gorgeous  clouds  of  sunset,"  the  "scallop-edged 
waves  of  flood-tide,"  the  sea's  "husky-haughty  lips,"  the 


THE  PHILOSOPHIC  AND   RELIGIOUS  GROUND  273 

"myriad  leaves"  of  the  Redwood-tree,  "bravuras  of  birds," 
"bustle  of  growing  wheat,"  "gossip  of  flame,"  "winged 
purposes  of  wood-drake" — from  all  natural  sources  with- 
out exception  a  kindred  response  vibrates  back  to  the 
soul's  invitation.  The  "damp  of  night"  drives  deeper  into 
his  soul  than  logic  or  sermons.  A  morning  glory  at  his 
window  teaches  more  than  the  metaphysics  of  books. 
"Why  are  there  trees  I  never  walk  under  but  large  and 
melodious  thoughts  descend  upon  me."  He  needs  but 
to  "lie  abstracted"  to  hear  "beautiful  tales  of  things  and 
reasons  of  things." 

"Air,  soil,  water,  fire — these  are  words. 
I  myself  am  a  word  with  them — qualities  interpenetrate  with 

them — my  name  is  nothing  to  them, 
Though  it  were  told  in  the  three  thousand  languages,  what 

would  air,  soil,  water,  fire,  know  of  my  name? 
A  healthy  presence,  a,  friendly  or  commanding  gesture,  are 

words,  sayings,  meanings, 
The  charms  that  go  with  the  mere  looks  of  some  men  and 

women,  are  sayings  and  meanings  also. 

The  workmanship  of  souls  is  by  those  inaudible  words  of  the 

earth, 
The  masters  know  the  earth's  words  and  use  them  more  than 

audible  words." 

"I  swear  there  is  no  greatness  or  power  that  does  not  emulate 

those  of  the  earth, 
There  can  be  no  theory  of  any  account  unless  it  corroborate 

the  theory  of  the  earth, 
Xo  politics,  song,  religion,  behavior,  or  what  not,  is  of  account, 

unless  it  compare  with  the  amplitude  of  the  earth, 
Unless  it  face  the  exactness,  vitality,  impartiality,  rectitude  of 

the  earth." 
Manifestly  the  intention  of  all  his  songs  of  nature  is  to 


274  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

demonstrate  the  infinite  relationships  within  the  universe 
and  the  value  to  the  soul  of  man  of  the  intercommunica- 
tion. 

Whitman's  celebration  of  the  individual  culminates  in 
his  songs  of  evolution  and  immortality.  His  poems  con- 
tain the  strongest  assertion  and  argument  respecting  the 
continuity  of  being  that  can  be  found  anywhere  in  litera- 
ture. 

"I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound, 
I  know  I  am  deathless, 
I  know  I  am  august, 

My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite, 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time." 

So  necessary  is  the  conception  of  evolution  to  the 
philosophy  of  democracy,  it  would  seem  that  if  the  soul 
of  man  had  not  already  known  its  immortality,  Whitman, 
as  the  spokesman  of  the  New  World,  must  have  invented 
the  idea  for  the  furtherance  of  his  theory  of  man.  For 
by  the  thought  of  physical  and  spiritual  evolution  every 
atom  in  the  universe  is  given  place  and  importance  and 
its  place  and  condition  are  fully  justified.  In  the  cosmic 
elemental  stream  all  conditions  are  levelled  and  made 
as  one,  however  distinctive  the  special  attainments  of 
anyone  may  be.  Size  is  only  development. 

"Have  you  outstripped  the  rest?    Are  you  the  President? 
It  is  a  trifle,  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  everyone,  and 
still 


"Births  have  brought  us  richness  and  variety, 
And  other  births  will  bring  us  richness  and  variety. 
I  do  not  call  one  greater  and  one  smaller, 
That  which  fills  its  period  and  place  is  equal  to  any.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHIC   AND   RELIGIOUS   GROUND  275 

"The  universe  is  duly  in  order,  everything  is  in  its  place, 
What  has  arrived  is  in  its  place  and  what  waits  shall  be  in 

its  place." 

The  universe  is  seen  as  a  procession  with  measured  and 
perfect  motion.  Shadows  advance  before  the  object  and 
reached  hands  bring  up  the  laggards.  "Always  the 
procreant  urge  of  the  world." 

"I  saw  the  face  of  the  most  smear'd  and  slobbering  idiot  they 

had  at  the  asylum, 

And  I  know  for  my  consolation  what  they  knew  not, 
I  knew  of  the  agents  that  emptied  and  broke  my  brother, 
The  same  wait  to  clear  the  rubbish  from  the  fallen  tenement, 
And  I  shall  look  again  in  a  score  or  two  of  ages, 
And   I   shall   meet  the  real   landlord   perfect  and  unharm'd, 
every  inch  as  good  as  myself." 

The  poet  meets  death  with  equable  mind.  With  "keys 
of  softness"  the  soul  loosens  the  "clasps  of  the  knitted 
locks."  Life  and  "Heavenly  Death"  provide  for  all. 
When  any  orb  is  enfolded,  the  spirit  "lifts  that  level" 
and  continues  beyond.  "The  goal  that  was  named  cannot 
be  countermanded." 

To  such  an  inclusive  spiritual  democracy  there  can  be 
no  limitations  or  probations.  Immortality  is  necessary 
and  universal. 

"I  swear  I  think  there  is  nothing  but  immortality! 
That  the  exquisite  scheme  is  for  it,  and  the  nebulous  float  is 

for  it,  and  the  cohering  is  for  it! 

And   all   preparation  is   for   it — and  identity  ia  for   it — and 
life  and  materials  are  altogether  for  it!" 

Indeed   "the  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is   really  no 

death." 

"Nothing  is  ever  really  lost,  or  can  be  lost, 
No  birth,  identity,  form — no  object  of  the  world, 
Nor  life,  nor  force,  nor  any  visible  thing." 


276  THE  CHANGING  ORDEE 

In  a  philosophy  devoted  to  the  identities  the  dualistic 
distinctions  between  good  and  evil  fail  of  their  meanings 
and  the  orthodox  ethics  is  thrown  to  confusion.  The 
doctrine  of  good  and  evil  in  the  mediaeval  theologies  was 
comparatively  simple ;  it  consisted  in  forming  fixed  cate- 
gories of  right  and  wrong  by  absolute  standards.  But 
as  life  was  never  static  but  ever  flowing  it  was  difficult 
even  during'  the  vogue  of  dualism  to  fit  practice  to  the 
theory  and  it  became  easier  to  modify  the  theory  than  to 
enforce  right  conduct.  Extremists  like  William  Blake 
denied  the  sacred  codes  in  toto  and  reversed  their  cate- 
gories. Milder  men,  like  Emerson  and  Browning,  at- 
tempting reconciliation,  extended  toward  Satan  a  gener- 
ous hospitality  and  appropriated  his  evil  as  an  agency 
in  the  good.  Both  thinkers  abandoned  the  restrictive 
codes  and  trusted  to  the  soul's  original  energy.  It  re- 
quires but  one  more  step  to  reach  the  monistic  plane  and 
but  a  little  more  courage  to  give  up  the  attempt  at  recon- 
ciliating  differences  that  pertain  only  to  a  past  philosophy 
and  construe  life  on  wholly  new  terms.  Probably  Whit- 
man in  general  would  adopt  the  saying  of  Emerson :  "Vir- 
tue is  the  adherence  in  action  to  the  nature  of  things: 
The  only  right  is  what  is  after  my  constitution,  the  only 
wrong  is  what  is  against  it."  And  if  the  retort  be  made : 
"These  impulses  may  be  from  below,"  Whitman  would 
respond  as  cheerfully  as  did  the  elder  sage :  "If  I  am  the 
Devil's  child,  I  will  live  then  from  the  Devil;  no  law 
can  be  sacred  to  me  but  that  of  my  nature."  However 
Whitman  is  more  inclined  to  deny  the  validity  of  the 
terms  good  and  bad  altogether  and  would  use  them — as 
Blake  did  in  his  "Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell" — only 
as  traditional  counters  of  speech,  very  much  as  one  still 


THE   PHILOSOPHIC  AND  RELIGIOUS  GROUND  277 

speaks  of  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.  "I  resist 
anything,"  he  said,  "more  than  my  own  diversity."  "I 
will  stand  by  my  own  nativity  pious  or  impious  so  be  it." 
"Clear  and  sweet  is  my  soul  and  clear  and  sweet  is  all 
that  is  not  my  soul."  Knowing  the  perfect  fitness  and 
equanimity  of  things  he  is  vexed  at  "showing  the  best 
and  dividing  it  from  the  worst"  "Evil  propels  me  and 
reform  of  evil  propels  me.  I  stand  indifferent."  "What 
is  called  good  is  perfect  and  what  is  called  evil  is  just  as 
perfect"  In  a  poem  that  recalls  Emerson's  "Mithridates" 
he  declares  that  in  earth's  orbic  scheme  "newts,  crawl- 
ing things  in  slime  and  mud,  poisons,  the  barren  soil, 
the  evil  men,  the  slag  and  hideous  rot"  are  all  enclosed. 
Or  in  other  words  of  his :  "The  roughness  of  the  earth  and 
of  man  encloses  as  much  as  the  delicatesse  of  the  earth 
and  of  man."  He  thinks  the  elementary  laws  do  not  need 
to  be  worked  over  and  believes  that  from  the  unflagging 
pregnancy  health  will  emerge.  The  problem  of  modern 
life  is  not  as  in  mediaeval  days  to  achieve  righteousness 
but  to  entertain  sincerity  and  truth.  And  in  the  last 
thought  of  the  universe  "all  is  truth."  Everything,  in- 
evitable and  limitless,  appears  in  the  line  of  its  inheri- 
tance and  is  allowed  the  "eternal  purports  of  the  earth." 

"I  sing  the  endless  finalgs  of  things, 
I  say  Nature  continues,  glory  continues, 
I  praise  with  electric  voice, 

For  I  do  not  see  one  imperfection  in  the  universe, 
And  I  do  not  see  one  cause  or  result  lamentable  at  last  in  tlie 


Thus  the  motive  of  Whitman's  entire  gospel  is  to  es- 
tablish man  in  undisputed  mastery  over  himself.  The 
center  of  authority  is  shifted  from  what  is  without  the 


278  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

soul  to  the  soul  itself.  The  ethics  of  authority  is  for- 
ever void.  Responsibility  attaches  to  the  self.  And  no 
one  ever  taught  more  insistently  than  Whitman  the  im- 
possibility of  eluding  "the  law  of  promotion  and  trans- 
formation" that  inheres  in  one's  own  acts  and  thoughts. 
Theft  comes  back  to  the  thief  as  love  returns  to  the 
lover.  "A  strong  being  is  the  proof  of  the  race  and  of 
the  ability  of  the  universe." 

The  intention  of  the  old  theology  was  to  reduce  man, 
to  make  him  submissive,  to  take  from  his  autonomy.  The 
new  proposes  to  exalt  man,  to  deny  mastery,  to  prove 
capacity  for  self-rule.  The  old  convicted  man  of  sin, 
initiated  a  division  and  conflict  within  the  self,  filled 
him  with  lamentations,  postponed  his  rewards.  The  new 
knows  but  one  compact  indivisible  impulse,  permits  man's 
original  energy  its  joyful  utterance,  yields  his  pains  and 
pleasures  now.  The  old  tended  to  develop  in  man  a  sense 
of  alienism  in  the  midst  of  all  cosmic  forms.  The  new 
seeks  to  place  him  in  rapport  with  the  universe,  to  arouse 
the  abysmal  passions  whereby  he  becomes  the  lover  of  the 
cosmos,  the  interpreter  of  its  occult  meanings  and  an  ac- 
complice in  its  ends. 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST. 
I. 

There  are  certain  periods  in  history  described  as  awak- 
enings and  new  births,  during  which,  after  long  quies- 
cence, the  human  spirit  rouses  itself  from  stupor,  breaks 
the  bonds  of  code  and  custom,  and  strikes  out  in  new  direc- 
tions, makes  discoveries  of  new  continents  and  skies,  is  cre- 
ative and  expansive  in  unwonted  fields,  and  attains  thereby 
a  new  plane  of  consciousness.  The  sign  of  awakening  is 
an  unusual  activity — an  activity  vague  and  unregulated  at 
first,  but  with  an  ever-increasing  definiteness  of  purpose. 
The  expansion  is  commonly  at  once  geographical,  scien- 
tific, and  theosophical.  The  accidents  of  history  determine 
the  direction  of  discovery  and  provide  the  particular  ex- 
ternal materials  for  the  spirit's  use,  but  the  whole  move- 
ment accrues  eventually  to  character  and  becomes  per- 
manent in  an  enlarged  racial  consciousness.  Egypt,  India 
and  Persia  at  some  time  passed  through  such  spiritual 
epochs,  but  the  awakening  of  the  peoples  of  Europe  in 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  is  known  above  all 
other  similar  events  as  the  Renaissance.  There  was  then 
a  genuine  new  birth  of  the  human  spirit,  an  advance  for 
two  mystic  centuries  into  a  new  condition  of  freedom, 
an  elevation  of  mind  and  soul  such  as  the  race  had  ex- 
perienced before  but  once  or  twice  in  its  history.  The 
vague  unrest  of  the  Crusades  was  an  early  sign  of  gesta- 


280  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

tion,  of  awakening  energy.  The  new  birth  was  announced 
by  the  revival  of  the  sense  of  wonder  and  by  the  de- 
sire for  exploration.  Undiscovered  lands  and  seas  offered 
the  opportunity  of  physical  expansion.  The  unsolved 
problems  of  the  stars  excited  the  mind  to  explore  the 
heavens.  The  accident  of  the  fall  of  the  Greek  em- 
pire occasioned  the  migration  of  scholars  westward; 
their  absorption  in  the  humanistic  movement  inaugurated 
by  Petrarch  and  his  followers  increased  the  scope  of  the 
New  .Learning  and  led  to  a  more  complete  resuscitation 
of  the  past.  To  the  wisdom  of  the  Jews  were  added  the 
forgotten  speculations  of  the  Greeks.  It  happened  that 
Virgil  was  the  first  of  the  classic  texts  to  be  printed,  but 
Greek  was  the  favorite  symbol  of  scholarship ;  Homer 
was  printed  in  1488;  Aristotle  in  1498,  and  Plato  in  1513. 
The  affiliation  with  the  Greek  spirit  was  the  primary  fact 
of  the  Italian  renaissance.  Through  the  retention  of  the 
germs  of  spiritual  freedom  contained  in  the  literature 
of  Hellas,  the  desire  for  knowledge  was  quickened,  the 
sense  of  the  beautiful, was  restored,  and  the  horizons  of 
speculation  were  widened  through  all  the  western  lands. 
The  immediate  direction  of  energy,  the  materials  upon 
which  the  new  life  was  expended,  were  the  accidents  of 
the  environment.  That  which  was  permanent  was  a  cer- 
tain elevation  of  soul  and  freedom  of  spirit — a  freedom 
that  still  gives  a  motive  to  the  modern  world. 

The  nineteenth  century  will  be  known  in  history  as  the 
beginning  of  another  European  renaissance.  An  ex- 
pansive movement  in  human  affairs  became  conspicuous 
about  the  middle  of  the  century,  the  tide  of  which  was  felt 
upon  the  farthest  shore.  An  old  order  was  closed  in 
Europe  by  the  popular  revolutions  at  the  end  of  the 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  281 

eighteenth  century.  An  impulse  for  freedom  was  initiated 
by  the  cries  of  fraternity  and  equality  sounding  from  the 
French  Revolution.  The  century  witnessed  the  liberal 
movement  in  religion,  the  republican  movement  in  poli- 
tics, the  romantic  movement  in  art,  the  scientific  move- 
ment in  education,  the  industrial  movement  in  sociology. 
Geographical  expansion  has  been  effected  through  the 
exploration  of  the  Dark  Continent,  the  settlement  of  un- 
tilled  lands  in  other  continents  and  the  conquest  of  in- 
ferior peoples  by  the  dominant  races.  Natural  forces 
hitherto  unknown  or  unemployed  have  been  discovered 
and  applied  to  service.  By  means  of  improved  micro- 
scopes and  telescopes  the  minute  and  the  distant  have 
been  brought  within  the  ken  of  science.  Philosophic  spec- 
ulation has  been  more  daring  and  far-reaching  than  be- 
fore. Never  was  man  more  active,  more  efficient,  more 
like  a  god.  All  outward  motion  is  a  sign  of  inward 
growth.  Outer  expansion  answers  to  inner  expansion 
— even  as  conservatism  and  contraction  of  boundaries 
testify  to  inner  decay.  Man  has  awakened  again  spirit- 
ually. A  cycle  of  growth  is  completed  and  new  and 
more  psychic  paths  are  entered  upon.  Not  now  to  Greece 
but  to  the  Orient — to  that  which  lay  behind  Greece,  to 
that  which  tinctured  the  lore  of  Plato  and  the  dialectics 
of  Aristotle,  to  more  primitive  sources  of  life — the  West- 
ern race  is  tending.  The  privilege  that  the  nineteenth 
century  enjoyed  above  all  other  centuries  was  its  access 
to  the  East. 

II. 

The  way  to  the  Orient  had  been  found  as  early  as  the 


THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

year  1500  by  Portuguese  sailors,  and  by  the  year  1600 
trade  with  India  and  China  was  inaugurated  by  English 
merchantmen.  And  still  to  the  Orient  all  vessels  are 
turning.  That  was  a  memorable  historic  event  in  1853, 
when  Commodore  Perry  with  his  "black  ships"  entered 
the  harbor  of  Yedo  to  sue  for  a  treaty  of  trade  with 
Japan.  Equally  significant  was  the  year  1869,  when  the 
Suez  Canal  was  formally  opened  and  the  Union  Pacific 
rails  were  laid  across  the  American  Continent.  In  1885 
the  Canadian  Pacific  Company  completed  its  three  thou- 
sand miles  of  highway  to  Port  Moody,  and  another 
oceanic  route  to  the  East  was  established.  In  1891  the 
Czarowitz  drove  the  first  spike  for  the  Siberian  railway 
at  Vladivostok,  on  the  Japan  Sea.  More  recently  the 
course  of  events  established  the  United  States  in  Hawaii 
and  the  Philippines  on  the  route  to  the  Orient.  Other 
highways  are  being  surveyed  across  Europe  and  Asia. 
Easy  intercommunication  is  everywhere  assured  at  the 
opening  of  the  century. 

Trade  and  commerce  with  the  East  have  been  effected, 
not  merely  in  goods  and  fabrics,  but  also  in  subtler  prop- 
erties. In  the  ships  of  the  tradesmen  scholarship  sailed. 
As  in  the  earlier  renaissance,  scholastic  criticism  preceded 
the  appropriation  of  spiritual  results.  What  Petrarch, 
Marsigli,  the  eminent  Chysolorus,  and  other  Florentine 
scholars  did  for  Hellenism,  Sir  William  Jones,  Schlegel, 
Bobb,  Du  Perron,  Spiegel,  Mueller,  Whitney,  Harper, 
and  other  noted  scholars  accomplished  for  the  Oriental. 
While  remembering  the  disclosures  of  science  respecting 
the  operations  of  nature,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
the  chief  conquests  in  the  new  learning  in  this  age  have 
been  made  in  the  field  of  human  history.  Whole  acts  in 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  283 

the  drama  of  the  world  have  been  discovered.  Treasures 
have  been  unearthed  that  surpass  in  human  value  the 
discoveries  of  all  previous  centuries.  The  entire  sacred 
literature  of  the  race  is  disclosed  for  the  student  of  relig- 
ions. The  veil  is  drawn  from  the  mysteries  of  Egypt. 
India,  the  home  of  Brahmanism,  the  birthplace  of  Budd- 
hism, and  the  refuge  of  Zoroastrianism,  is  as  an  open 
book.  Through  the  work  of  philologists  we  know  some- 
thing of  the  history  of  words  and  conceptions,  and  of  the 
momentous  events,  the  intellectual  battles,  the  life  dramas, 
that  words  represent. 

It  is  astonishing  to  find  how  recently  the  Occident 
came  into  its  inheritance  of  Oriental  wisdom.  The  ignor- 
ance of  Europe  regarding  the  East  was  nearly  total  at 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century.  "I  do  not  like 
the  fashion  of  your  garments,"  said  King  Lear  in  blind 
reproof  of  Edgar.  "You  will  say  they  are  Persian."  A 
hundred  years  ago  Persia  was  still  hardly  more  than  a 
name;  India,  a  vast  outlying  region;  Egypt,  a  sphinx 
hidden  in  the  sands.  The  demand  made  by  Voltaire  for 
the  substitution  of  the  ancient  moral  systems  for  Chris- 
tianity was  based  upon  the  slightest  knowledge  of  those 
systems.  The  Eastern  poems  of  Moore,  Southey,  and 
Byron  do  not  strike  below  the  surface  of  their  subjects. 
It  was  not  until  1783,  when  Sir  William  Jones  published 
a  translation  of  the  Indian  poem  "Sa  Kuntala,"  that 
English  scholars  became  even  aware  of  the  existence  of 
an  immense  and  complete  Indian  literature.  The  Upani- 
shads  were  accessible  to  European  scholars  only  in  a 
translation  of  a  Persian  version  rendered  into  Latin  by 
Auquetil  du  Perron  in  1802.  The  celebrated  Indian 
Rammahun  Roy,  who  visited  England  in  1831,  was  the 


284  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

first  Brahman  to  appear  in  Europe  for  the  interchange 
of  ideas.  It  was  not  till  1832  that  a  chair  of  Sanskrit  was 
established  in  Oxford.  Professor  Wilson,  the  first  in- 
cumbent of  the  office,  translated  only  a  part  of  the  "Rig- 
Veda  Sanhita."  Professor  Max  Mueller  published  in 
1849  the  text  and  commentary  of  the  "Rig- Veda."  The 
oldest  book  of  the  Aryan  race  was  then  for  the  first  time 
accessible  to  students.  As  with  the  Vedas  of  the  Brah- 
mans,  so  with  the  Avesta  of  the  Zoroastrians,  the  Pitaka 
of  the  Buddhists,  the  Kings  of  the  Confucians,  the  Koran 
of  the  Mohammedans,  and  the  Egyptian  Book  of  the 
Dead.  Until  1859  the  language  which  the  Parsees — the 
modern  disciples  of  Zoroaster — used  in  their  worship 
was  an  unknown  tongue  even  to  themselves.  The  Ro- 
setta  stone  was  found  in  1779,  but  waited  long  for  Cham- 
poll  ion  and  Letronne  to  use  it  for  unlocking  the  vast 
religious  literature  of  Egypt.  The  researches  of  M. 
Edouard  Neville  and  Flinders  Petrie  in  Egypt  are  known 
to  the  youngest.  The  verses  of  Omar  may  fairly  be 
classed  in  our  current  literature.  It  seems  but  yesterday 
that  Lafcadio  Hearn  became  a  member  of  the  college  at 
Tokio  and  began  the  publication  of  those  wonderful  es- 
says that  alone  interpret  the  inner  life  of  Japan  to  West- 
ern observers.  It  was  left  to  Kipling  to  annex  an  en- 
tirely new  field  to  literature.  To  the  closing  years  of  the 
century  belong  also  the  right  reading  of  our  own  He- 
brew scriptures  and  the  just  recognition  of  the  Oriental 
forces  affecting  the  early  Christian  theology,  and  it 
seems  not  unlikely  that  the  classics  themselves  will  be 
reread  in  the  light  of  the  new  learning. 

The  activity  of  European  scholarship  is  not  without 
its  spiritual  ground.    The  search  in  the  Orient  is  instinc- 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  285 

tive  and  intuitive.  For  fourteen  centuries  and  more  the 
Greek  manuscripts  lay  in  the  Italian  libraries  unnoticed, 
waiting  the  development  of  an  intelligence  capable  of 
interpreting  them.  It  was  not  their  discovery  that  caused 
the  Renaissance ;  it  was  the  Renaissance  that  caused  their 
discovery.  Today  some  spiritual  attraction,  some  feeling 
of  kinship,  is  drawing  the  West  to  the  East.  It  is  too 
soon  to  measure  the  results  of  the  influence ;  it  is  hardly 
time  to  be  predictive.  This  much  may  be  understood: 
that  the  best  will  be  absorbed.  Schopenhauer,  on  read- 
ing the  Upanishads,  pronounced  the  Vedantic  philosophy 
a  product  of  the  highest  wisdom,  and  predicted  that  In- 
dian wisdom  would  flow  back  upon  Europe  and  produce 
a  thorough  change  in  its  knowing  and  thinking.  In  the 
first  edition  (1818)  of  his  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vors- 
tellung  he  stated  his  belief  that  the  influence  of  Sanskrit 
literature  would  not  be  less  profound  than  the  revival  of 
the  Greek  in  the  fourteenth  century.  As  is  well  known, 
Schopenhauer's  own  philosophy  was  strongly  impreg- 
nated by  the  fundamental  doctrines  of  the  Upanishads. 
The  Orient  is  the  original  home  of  theosophy,  a  term  de- 
noting that  form  of  philosophic  thought  which  claims  a 
special  insight  into  the  divine  nature.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  the  whole  transcendental  movement,  from  its  rise  in 
Germany  to  its  evaporation  in  the  excesses  of  the  "new- 
ness" in  New  England,  was  profoundly  affected  by  the 
theosophical  teachings  of  Eastern  sages.  One  of  the  re- 
markable features  of  the  New  England  "Dial,"  the  or- 
gan of  the  new  philosophy,  was  the  chapters  on  "Ethnic 
Scriptures,"  which  contained  texts  from  the  Veeshnu 
Sarma,  the  laws  of  Menu,  Confucius,  the  Desatir,  the 
Chinese  "Four  Books,"  Hermes  Trismegistus,  and  Chal- 


286  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

dean  oracles.  Modern  theosophy  was  founded  in  the 
United  States  in  1875  by  Madame  Blavatsky  and  Colonel 
Olcott,  the  objects  of  the  society  being1  "to  form  a  nu- 
cleus of  universal  brotherhood"  and  "to  investigate  the 
unexplained  laws  of  nature  and  the  physical  powers  of 
man."  The  extension  of  this  and  similar  orders  in 
America  and  Europe  has  been  phenomenal.  Antique 
oracular  style,  allegorical  and  esoteric  methods  appear 
again  in  the  fables  and  apothegms  of  so  modern  and  an- 
tagonistic philosopher  as  Nietzsche.  The  Oriental  in- 
fluence will  most  certainly  count  on  the  side  of  idealism. 
It  will  tend  to  emotionalize  the  European  intellect.  It 
will  quicken  imagination.  It  will  work  for  unity.  It  will 
effect  brotherhood. 

Some  of  the  practical  effects  of  Orientalism  may  be 
determined  by  its  modification  of  Western  modes.  The 
Greek  influence  on  Italian  art  was  in  the  direction  of 
more  perfect  and  elaborate  form.  Painting  lost  its  de- 
scriptive and  symbolical  power  and  assumed  the  motive 
of  pure  form.  By  the  time  of  the  high  Renaissance  art 
forms  had  become  fully  abstracted  from  meaning,  and 
in  the  next  century  in  Italy  art  was  so  conventionalized 
that  it  failed  to  serve  any  human  interest  and  the  life- 
energy  came  to  be  exercised  elsewhere.  But  theosophi- 
cal  growth  is  inner:  it  depends  upon  experience  and 
eventuates  in  character.  Such  beauty  as  it  evolves  will 
be  characteristic,  or  that  which  corresponds  to  the  inner 
thought.  The  outer  form  will  tend  to  attenuate  till  it 
becomes  the  veriest  symbol.  The  more  mystical  the  feel- 
ing, the  more  vague  and  indefinite  will  be  the  form.  The 
formlessness  of  Oriental  literature  has  often  been  re- 
marked upon.  Japanese  art,  while  not  particularly  mys- 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  287 

tical,  inclines  to  the  characteristic.  The  music-dramas  of 
Wagner  well  illustrate  the  new  mode  in  the  West. 
Beethoven  was  the  last  exponent  of  the  music  of  classic 
form.  Wagner  through  Schopenhauer  became  a  convert 
to  Orientalism  and  created  a  music  of  character  depend- 
ent upon  a  philosophical  system.  Sounds  exist  not  for 
themselves  but  for  what  they  signify.  The  symbolistic 
manner  is  carried  still  farther  in  the  plays  of  Maeterlinck, 
where  outward  action  almost  ceases,  that  the  observer 
may  follow  the  play  of  feeling  and  fancy  with  unimpeded 
motion.  "The  time  will  come,"  says  Maeterlinck,  "when 
our  souls  will  know  of  each  other  without  the  inter- 
mediary of  the  senses." 

An    exception    to    the    general    philosophic    influence 
seems  to  be  afforded  by  the  writings  of  Omar,  which  are 
unidealistic  and  seek  the  ultimate  peace  in  sensation: 
"A  moment's  halt — a  momentary  taste 
Of  being  from  the  well  amid  the  waste — 
And  lo!  the  phantom  caravan  has  reach'd 
The  nothing  is  set  out  from — Oh,  make  haste!" 
But   Omar  was  himself  a   rebel  against  the  orthodox 
Puritanism  of  his  time,  and  the  explanation  of  the  amaz- 
ing hold  his  rubaiyat  have  suddenly  acquired  upon  the 
English  race  is  their  association  with  the  same  rebellious 
spirit  in  the  West.    Their  acceptance  betokens  profound 
dissatisfaction  with  the  current  orthodoxies,  and  Omar 
in  reality  works  indirectly  for  the  spread  of  the  idealism 
he  opposed.     The  company  of  Omarians  that  meet  in 
London  in  the  midst  of  roses  and  over  wine  are  simply 
agnostic;  and  if  their  contentment  is  not  in  thought,  it 
is  certainly  not  in  sensation. 

Science  and  theosophy  represent  different  phases  of  the 


288  TIIE  CHANGING  ORDER 

great  awakening  in  the  nineteenth  century.  The  em- 
phasis is  now  on  the  outer  and  now  on  the  inner.  But 
it  is  wisdom  and  not  knowledge  that  endures.  The  new 
cycle  will  witness  the  positive  increase  in  the  human  race 
of  thought,  of  experience,  of  character,  of  the  life  of  the 
spirit. 

III. 

It  is  now  possible  to  predict  the  affiliation  of  democ- 
racy with  Orientalism.  A  casual  observer  would  not  fail 
to  note  the  Pacific  interests  of  America,  the  mainten- 
ance of  the  "open  door"  eastward  for  commerce,  the  in- 
terest of  American  scholars  in  Oriental  subjects,  the 
intervisitation  of  the  teachers  of  all  systems — the  mis- 
sionary activity  of  the  Churches  in  one  direction  and  the 
successful  propagandism  of  the  new  Vedantism  in  the 
other  direction.  It  is  recalled  that  at  the  foundation  of 
the  University  of  Chicago,  the  youngest  of  the  univer- 
sities, the  fullest  provision  was  made  for  the  oldest  lan- 
guages ;  that  the  first  doctor's  degree  given  by  this  uni- 
versity is  held  by  a  student  from  Japan  for  proficiency 
in  the  Semitic  field ;  that  its  first  building  for  the  use  of 
a  department  of  language  was  an  Oriental  hall ;  and  that 
its  endowment  provides  for  a  series  of  lectures  to  be 
given  annually  in  the  cities  of  the  East  by  Western 
scholars.  And  when  one  sees  in  America  vast  concourses 
of  people  wearing  the  garb  and  bearing  the  symbols  of 
devotees  to  some  "mystic  shrine,"  he  is  impelled  to  won- 
der at  the  strength  of  migratory  secrecies.  There  are 
these  many  outer  signs  of  an  inner  identity.  In  certain 
emotional,  imaginative,  and  reflective  states,  Americans 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  280 

are  often  farther  from  Europeans  than  from  many 
Asiatics.  Amid  all  our  diversity,  there  is  in  America  a 
profound  sense  of  unity.  To  win  independence  first  and 
then  union,  our  two  great  wars  were  fought.  The  phi- 
losophy of  individualism  is  our  inheritance  from  Europe. 
To  the  Indian  philosophy  of  oneness  we  turn  for  confir- 
mation of  our  principle  of  unity.  The  absorption  of  all 
in  a  common  principle  gives  importance  to  the  members 
of  a  group ;  it  also  provides  for  brotherhood.  It  is  this 
consciousness  of  a  common  life  direction  that  is  bringing 
together  again  the  various  ethnic  streams  of  the  Aryan 
race,  after  a  separation  so  long  that  the  recollection  of 
their  common  source  has  been  completely  lost. 

Three  American  writers  illustrate  different  phases  of 
the  reunion.  In  the  works  of  Bayard  Taylor,  Emerson, 
and  Whitman,  I  find  the  affirmation  of  my  thesis. 

Bayard  Taylor  was  one  of  the  first  among  American 
men  of  letters  to  be  possessed  with  a  passion  for  travel. 
He  was  an  American  Ulysses,  "always  roaming  with  a 
hungry  heart."  Other  lines  of  Tennyson's  poem  spring 
to  memory  at  the  suggestion,  and  one  is  surprised  to 
find  how  applicable  the  poem  is  to  Taylor  and  all  wander- 
ing men : 

"I  cannot  rest  from  travel;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone.    .    .    . 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move." 

Beginning  his  wanderings  in  his  youth,  Taylor  visited 


290  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

in  the  course  of  his  lifetime  nearly  every  country  of  the 
globe.  During  a  single  journey,  begun  in  1851,  he  trav- 
ersed most  of  the  countries  of  Europe,  Asia  and  Africa, 
traveling  a  distance  of  fifty  thousand  miles.  He  went 
with  Commodore  Perry  to  Japan  in  1853.  Keenly  ob- 
servant, with  insatiable  curiosity,  with  a  ready  and  re- 
liable pen,  he  was  our  best  reporter  abroad.  But  more 
than  a  mere  observer  and  recorder,  he  had  the  genius  of 
identifying  himself  with  the  life  of  many  peoples.  On 
the  whole,  he  was  the  most  conspicuous  ethnic  identity 
of  the  age.  He  seemed  to  be  German,  Spanish,  Syrian, 
at  need.  Undoubtedly  the  most  interesting  and  valuable 
part  of  Taylor's  experiences  abroad  was  his  travel  in 
India,  China,  and  Japan.  He  felt  himself  drawn  to  these 
peoples  as  to  no  others.  Not  inappropriately  Hicks, 
when  commissioned  to  draw  his  portrait,  painted  him  in 
Asiatic  costume,  turbaned,  smoking,  sitting  cross-legged 
upon  a  roof-top  of  Damascus.  E.  C.  Stedman,  remark- 
upon  Taylor's  affinity  with  the  East,  noted  the  Oriental 
likeness  "in  those  down-dropping  eyelids  which  made  his 
profile  like  Tennyson's ;  in  his  aquiline  nose,  with  the  ex- 
pressive tremor  of  the  nostrils  as  he  spoke ;  in  his  thinly 
tufted  chin,  his  close-curling  hair;  his  love  of  spices, 
music,  coffee,  colors,  and  perfumes ;  his  sensitiveness  to 
outdoor  influences,  to  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  the 
bath,  the  elemental  touch  of  air  and  water,  and  the  life- 
giving  sun."  It  was  to  be  expected  that  his  "Poems  of 
the  Orient"  would  give  him  freest  outlet  for  song.  Un- 
restrained, glowing  with  color,  languorous,  heavy  with 
perfume,  these  lyrics  not  only  represent  Taylor's  fresh- 
est, most  vivid,  and  most  spontaneous  poetic  work,  but 
also  are  superior  to  anything  of  their  kind  in  literature, 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  291 

being-  freed  from  the  "honeyed  monotony  of  Moore's 
Orientalism  and  the  bookishness  of  Southey."  They 
are  indeed  the  "flowers  of  a  life  that  had  ripened  in  the 
suns  of  many  lands."  When  the  poet  came  to  the  "Land 
of  the  East,"  his  soul  seemed  native: 

"All  things  to  him  were  the  visible  forms 

Of  early  and  precious  dreams — 
Familiar  visions  that  mocked  his  quest 

Beside  the  Western  streams, 
Or  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  clouds,  unrolled 
In  the  sunset's  dying  beams." 

Flowers,  too,  shed  their  welcome;  the  birds  claimed 
kinship. 

The  Poet  said:  "I  will  here  abide, 

In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door; 
Here  are  the  wells  of  all  delight 

On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore: 
Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land, 

And  the  dream  deceives  no  more." 

When  the  poet  bade  farewell  to  sun  and  palm,  he  was 
frank  to  make  the  following  confession: 

"I  found,  among  those  Children  of  the  Sun, 

The  cipher  of  my  nature — the  release 
Of  bafflled  powers,  which  else  had  never  won 
That  free  fulfillment,  whose  reward  is  peace." 

Taylor  was  attracted  to  the  East  because  of  its  per- 
mission of  free  emotion  and  high  imagination;  Emerson 
was  drawn  thither  that  he  might  appropriate  its  deep 
speculative  wisdom.  Some  would  think  to  select  Alcott 
rather  than  Emerson  as  an  exponent  of  oracular  wisdom ; 


292  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

but  Alcott  was  fed  by  the  speculations  of  Greece  and  in- 
troduced no  thought  that  is  not  in  Pythagoras  or  Plato. 
Emerson  was  the  sage,  the  seer.  Brahmanism  being  a 
state  of  being  rather  than  a  creed,  he  may  be  said  to 
have  attained  its  highest  condition.  His  very  features 
recall  the  idea  of  Nirvana.  Said  an  Indian  visitor  of 
Emerson :  "There  is  that  hushed,  ineffable,  self-contained 
calmness  over  his  countenance  so  familiar  to  us  who  have 
studied  the  expression  of  Gotama's  image  in  every  pos- 
ture." In  "Representative  Men"  Plato  is  described  as 
visiting  Asia  and  Egypt  and  imbibing  the  ideal  of  one 
deity  in  which  all  things  are  absorbed.  From  the  same 
source  Emerson  drew  much  of  his  serene  idealism.  The 
Bhagavad  Gita  and  other  Upanishads,  the  writings  of 
Saadi  and  Hafiz,  were  among  his  favorite  reading.  "He 
delights,"  said  W.  T.  Harris,  "in  the  all-absorbing  unity 
of  the  Brahman,  in  the  all-renouncing  ethics  of  the  Chi- 
nese and  Persian,  in  the  measureless  images  of  the 
Arabian  and  Hindoo."  Without  dwelling  upon  all 
aspects  of  Emerson's  Orientalism,  it  may  be  said  that  it 
was  his  mission  to  translate  to  Western  readers  the  phi- 
losophy of  unity.  Above  all  men  of  his  generation  in 
America,  he  perceived  the  occult  relationship  between 
man  and  the  universe.  Matter,  a  Hindoo  seer  might  ex- 
plain, is  not  a  mere  succession  of  appearances,  nor  yet  a 
creation  of  the  brain  of  man,  but  a  mysterious  marvelous 
putting  forth  in  outward  form  of  beauty  that  which  is 
inwardly  realized  in  the  human  soul.  There  is  nowhere 
in  literature  so  admirable  an  epitome  of  the  Bhagavad 
Gita  as  the  poem  "Brahma" — that  poem  which  was 
greeted  with  smiles  and  looks  of  amazement  when  it 
appeared  in  the  first  number  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  293 

1857,  which  is  still  not  so  well  understood,  forty  and  eight 
years  after,  as  not  to  need  quotation: 

"If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays, 

Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Par  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 

And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good, 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven." 

Probably  the  poem  still  needs  the  commentary  of  a  prose 
passage  in  "Representative  Men,"  which  summarizes  so 
admirably  the  spirit  of  the  Indian  philosophy: 

"The  Same,  the  Same :  friend  and  foe  are  of  one  stuff ; 
the  plowman,  the  plow,  and  the  furrow  are  of  one  stuff; 
and  the  stuff  is  such,  and  so  much,  that  the  variations  of 
form  are  unimportant.  'You  are  fit,'  says  the  supreme 
Krishna  to  a  sage,  'to  apprehend  that  you  are  not  dis- 
tinct from  me.  That  which  I  am  thou  art,  and  that 
also  is  the  world,  with  its  gods  and  heroes  and  mankind. 
Men  contemplate  distinction,  because  they  are  stupefied 
with  ignorance.'  'The  words  I  and  mine  constitute 
ignorance.  What  is  the  great  end  of  all,  you  shall  now 


294  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

learn  from  me.  It  is  soul — one  in  all  bodies ;  as  pervad- 
ing, uniform,  perfect,  pre-eminent  over  nature;  exempt 
from  birth,  growth,  and  decay;  omnipresent,  made  up 
of  true  knowledge,  independent ;  unconnected  with  un- 
realities, with  name,  species,  and  the  rest;  in  time  past, 
present,  and  to  come.  The  knowledge  that  this  spirit, 
which  is  essentially  one,  is  in  one's  own  and  in  all  other 
bodies  is  the  wisdom  of  one  who  knows  the  unity  of 
things.  As  one  diffusive  air,  passing  through  the  per- 
forations of  a  flute,  is  distinguished  as  the  notes  of  a 
scale,  so  the  nature  of  the  Great  Spirit  is  single,  though 
its  forms  be  manifold,  arising  from  the  consequence  of 
acts.  When  the  difference  of  the  investing  form,  as  that 
of  god,  or  the  rest,  is  destroyed,  there  is  no  distinction." 
'The  whole  world  is  but  a  manifestation  of  Vishnu,  who 
is  identical  with  all  things,  and  is  to  be  regarded  by  the 
wise  as  not  differing  from,  but  as  the  same  as  themselves. 
I  neither  am  going  nor  coming;  nor  is  my  dwelling  in 
any  one  place ;  nor  art  thou,  thou ;  nor  are  others,  others ; 
nor  am  I,  I.'  As  if  he  had  said,  'All  is  for  the  soul,  and 
the  soul  is  Vishnu;  and  animals  and  stars  are  transient 
paintings ;  and  light  is  whitewash ;  and  durations  are  de- 
ceptive; and  form  is  imprisonment;  and  heaven  itself  a 
decoy/  That  which  the  soul  seeks  is  resolution  into 
being,  above  form,  out  of  Tartarus,  and  out  of  heaven — 
liberation  from  nature." 

After  such  acknowledgment  of  the  doctrine  of  unity, 
it  is  not  surprising  that  Indian  thinkers  claim  Emerson 
as  of  their  own  blood.  From  far  Calcutta,  Mazoomdar, 
a  Brahman,  wrote  of  Emerson:  "He  seems  to  us  to 
have  been  a  geographical  mistake.  He  ought  to  have 
been  born  in  India.  Perhaps  Hindoos  were  closer  kins- 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  205 

men  to  him  than  his  own  nation,  because  every  typical 
Hindoo  is  a  child  of  nature.  All  our  ancient  religion  is 
the  utterance  of  the  Infinite  through  nature's  symbolism." 
But  no!  India  is  not  so  much  a  geographical  region  as 
a  condition  of  being,  a  spirit,  an  attitude.  India  is  here 
or  nowhere.  It  is  one  of  the  romantic  incidents  of  his- 
tory that  the  ancient  sacred  texts  were  recovered,  even 
for  their  own  peoples,  through  the  agency  of  Western 
scholarship ;  it  may  happen  that  the  spiritual  mantle  of 
Elijah  will  fall  upon  some  Western  Elisha. 

Emerson  was  a  home-stayer,  but  Whitman,  like  Taylor, 
was  a  traveler — a  spiritual  traveler,  to  be  sure,  but  none 
the  less  did  he  know  all  lands,  observe  all  facts,  absorb 
all  lives,  contain  all  thoughts.  He  stands  conspicuous 
among  men  for  his  enormous  absorptive  capacity.  His 
was  a  "balanced  soul,"  even  as  Emerson  described  Plato's 
to  be,  at  home  at  once  in  the  "phenomenal"  and  the 
"real."  The  East  and  the  West  are  equally  understood 
and  included  in  his  all-containing  pages. 

"My  spirit  has  pass'd  in  compassion  and  determination  around 

the  whole  earth, 
I  have  look'd  for  equals  and  lovers,  and  found  them  ready  for 

me  in  all  lands; 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalized  me  with  them." 

His  Oriental  attachments  are  unmistakable.  His  own 
countenance  suggested  being,  rather  than  thinking.  He 
spoke  with  peculiar  pleasure  of  the  primitive  faiths. 

"My  faith  is  the  greatest  of  faiths  and  the  least  of  faiths, 
Enclosing  worship   ancient  and  modern  and  all   between  an- 
cient and  modern, 

Believing  I  shall  come  again  upon  the  earth  after  five  thou- 
sand years, 


296  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

Waiting  responses  from  oracles,  honoring  the  gods,   saluting 

the  sun, 
Making  a  fetich  of  the  first  rock  or  stump,  powowing  with 

sticks  in  the  circle  of  obis, 

Helping  the  lama  or  brahmin  as  he  trims  the  lamps  of  the  idols, 
Dancing  yet  through  the  streets  in  a  phallic  procession,  rapt 

and  austere  in  the  woods  a  gymnosophist, 
Drinking  mead  from  the  skull-cap,  to  Shastas  and  Vedaa  ad- 

mirant,  minding  the  Koran, 
Walking  the  teokallis,  spotted  with  gore  from  the  stone  and 

knife,  beating  the  serpent-skin  drum, 
Accepting    the    Gospels,    accepting    Him    that    was    crucified 

knowing  assuredly  that  he  is  divine." 

And  in  his  salutations  to  the  world  he  did  not  forget  the 
old  empires  of  Persia,  Assyria,  India,  or  Egypt: 

"I  hear  the  locusts  in  Syria  as  they  strike  .the  grain  and  grass 

with  the  showers  of  their  terrible  clouds. 
I  hear  the  Coptic  refrain  toward  sundown,  pensively  falling 

on  the  breast  of  the  black  venerable  vast  mother,  the 

Nile. 

I  hear  the  Arab  muezzin  calling  from  the  top  of  the  mosque. 
I  hear  the  cry  of  the  Cossack,  and  the  sailor's  voice  putting 

to  eea  at  Okotsk. 

I  hear  the  Hebrew  reading  his  records  and  psalms. 
I  hear  the  Hindoo  teaching  his  favorite  pupil  the  loves,  wars, 

adages,   transmitted  safely   to  this   day   from  poets   who 

wrote  three  thousand  years  ago." 

In  his  vision  appear  plainly  the  Himalaya  mountains, 
th^  waters  of  Hindustan,  and  the  China  Sea,  "the  spread 
of  the  Caspian,"  "the  four  great  rivers  of  China,"  "the 
windings  of  the  Volga,  the  Dnieper,  the  Oder,"  "the  fall- 
ing of  the  Ganges  over  the  high  rim  of  Saukara,"  the 
steppes  of  Asia,  the  tumuli  of  Mongolia,  the  tents  of 
Kalmucks  and  Baskirs,  the  highlands  of  Abyssinia,  Afri- 
can and  Asiatic  towns,  the  "Turk  smoking  opium  in 


THE  OUTLOOK  TO  THE  EAST  297 

Aleppo,"  the  picturesque  crowds  at  the  fairs  of  Khiva 
and  those  of  Herat,"  "the  caravans  toiling  onward,"  "the 
place  of  the  idea  of  the  Deity  incarnated  by  avatars  in 
human  forms,"  "the  spots  of  the  successions  of  priests 
on  the  earth,"  the  place  of  pyramids  and  obelisks,  Japan, 
and  all  the  islands  of  the  sea. 

His  thought  also  spans  these  vast  distances.  The 
speculations  of  India  illumine  his  pages.  It  is  remarkable 
that  Vedantists  and  Parses  grasp  the  significance  of 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  at  first  reading:  they  understand  its 
principles  of  distinction  and  unity,  its  celebration  of  the 
Self,  the  deference  of  the  "Me"  to  the  "real  Me,"  its  con- 
tentment with  being,  its  mystic  pantheism,  its  doctrine 
of  translations  and  avataras,  its  nature  worship,  its  all- 
embracing  symbolism.  This  gladness  at  birth,  immense 
egotism,  acceptance  of  evil,  content  at  death,  do  not  of- 
fend them  as  many  Western  readers — for  their  own 
philosophy  teaches  the  necessity  of  many  births  and 
deaths,  the  importance  of  personality,  the  acceptance  of 
such  conditions  as  the  soul  selects  in  birth  and  life.  "On 
the  Beach  at  Night  Alone"  is  as  all-absorbing  as  any  In- 
dian poem.  "All  Is  Truth"  is  readily  received  by  a  mind 
that  understands  Emerson's  "Brahma"  and  "Uriel." 

Yet  what  is  remarkable  about  Whitman  is  not  his 
translation  of  another  literature  but  the  attainment  in 
his  own  personality  of  a  given  plane  of  being.  His  was 
an  original  wisdom,  an  intuitive  comprehension  of  things. 
"I  need  no  assurances ;  I  am  a  man  preoccupied  of  his 
own  soul."  There  is  no  reason,  however,  for  belittling 
his  knowledge  or  conscious  motive  in  chanting  the  songs 
of  the  Orient.  He  was  well  aware  of  the  course  of  events 
that  was  bringing  the  geographies  together,  and  took 


298  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

upon  himself  the  task  of  furthering  the  tendency.  In 
''Facing  West  from  California's  Shore"  he  knew  full 
well  the  import  of  the  circle : 

"Facing  west  from  California's  shores, 
Inquiring,  tireless,  seeking  what  is  yet  unfound, 
I,  a  child,  very  old,  over  waves,  towards  the  house  of  maternity, 

the  land  of  migrations,  look  afar, 

Look  off  the  shores  of  my  Western  sea,  the  circle  almost  circled ; 
For    starting    westward   from   Hindustan,    from  the   vales   of 

Kashmere, 
From  Asia,  from  the  north,  from  the  God,  the  sage,  and  the 

hero, 
From  the  south,   from  the  flowery  peninsulas  and  the   spice 

islands, 

Long  having  wander'd  since,  round  the  earth  having  wander'd, 
Now  I  face  home  again,  very  pleas'd  and  joyous — 
(But  where  is  what  I  started  for  so  long  ago? 
And  why  is  it  yet  unfound  ? ) " 

Two  other  poems  set  forth  Whitman's  understanding 
of  the  effects  of  the  interaction  of  East  and  West:  "A 
Broadway  Pageant"  and  "Passage  to  India."  In  1867 
certain  envoys  from  Eastern  peoples  visited  New  York. 

"Over  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come, 
Courteous,  the  swart-cheek'd  two-sworded  envoys, 
Leaning  hack  in  their  open  barouches,  bareheaded,  impassive, 
Ride  today  through  Manhattan." 

The  pageant  was  for  Whitman  the  occasion  of  a 
prophecy.  He  perceived  in  the  "nobles  of  Niphon"  the 
errand-bringers  of  the  whole  Orient. 

"The  Originatress  comes, 

The  nest  of  languages,  the  bequeather  of  poems,  the  race  of  eld, 
Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with 
Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 


The  coming  of  the  envoys  Vfii  "  I  the  opening  of 
the  Eastern  doors.  The  sleep  of  the  ages  bad  done  ks 
work.  The  first  <^de  of  progress  from  the  start  in  Para- 
dise was  finished.  From  America,  the  "LAertad  of  Ac 
world,"  would  spring  a  "greater  supremacy :"  Asa  to  be 
renewed  for  a  second  cycle  trough  absorbing'  Ac  ex- 
periences tiie  race  had  gained  in  its  journey  westward, 

"Passage  to  India"  reverses  the  prophecy.  Its  occa- 
sion was  the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal  and  the  i  iniplf 
tioB  of  the  Pacific  Railroad,  by  which  the  rondtire  of  the 
world  was  at  last  accomplished.  Passage  to  India  meant 
passage  to  the  "most  pOjiHJnai,  wealthiest  of  die  earth's 
lands :"  it  meant  passage  to  "primal  thought," 
birth,"  "innocent  intuitions,"  passage  to 
tares,"  "tremendoos  epks,"  "budding  bibles,"  passage  to 
"old  occult  Brahma,"  and  "the  h^ifr^  and  junior 
Buddha."  It  meant  passage  to  more  than  India,  die  sofa- 
ing  of  "aged  fierce  enigmas,"  "mastership  of  strangling 
problems,"  the  telling  of  the  "secrets  of  the  earth  and 
sky."  It  meant  the  liberation  of  the  soul,  the  explora- 
tion of  "Nature  and  its  wonders,  Time  and  Space  and 
Death," 


300  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 

"O  Thou  transcendent, 

Nameless,  the  fiber  and  the  breath, 

Light  of  the  light,  shedding  forth  universes,  thou  center  of 
them, 

Thou  mightier  center  of  the  true,  the  good,  the  loving, 

Thou  moral  spiritual  fountain — affection's  source — thou  reser- 
voir, 

Thou  pulse — thou  motive  of  the  stars,  suns,  systems, 

That,  circling,  move  in  order,  safe,  harmonious, 

Athwart  the  shapeless  vaatnesses   of   space, 

How  should  I  think,  how  breathe  a  single  breath,  how  speak, 
if,  out  of  myself, 

I  could  not  launch,  to  those,  superior  universes?" 

Taylor  betrays  the  closeness  of  kinship  between  the 
West  and  the  East  in  point  of  personal  character  and 
emotional  and  imaginative  temperament.  Emerson  at- 
tained through  natural  evolution  the  condition  of  a  Brah- 
man, and  promulgated,  with  a  conscious  knowledge  of 
its  source,  the  Indian  doctrine  of  unity.  Whitman,  test- 
ing the  principle  of  unity,  passed  in  compassion  around 
the  circle  of  the  globe,  perceived  the  cyclic  currents  of 
progress — that  "the  lords  of  life  pass  from  east  to  west" 
— and  predicted  from  the  course  of  the  sun  the  spiritual 
rejuvenescence  of  America  through  contact  with  Asiatic 
thought,  and  thence  the  spread  and  ultimate  supremacy 
of  the  democratic  principle.  "In  our  own  day,"  writes 
William  Sloane  Kennedy,  "the  great  task  is  ended,  and 
we  now  stand,  with  hand  over  eyes,  gazing  far  over  the 
blue  Pacific  to  the  ancestral  home  whence  ages  ago  we 
set  out." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

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